


Primrose Farm

by GoodFae



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Modern human AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodFae/pseuds/GoodFae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Roland sells his share of the farm to Bog King, Marianne's left dealing with her nemesis on a live-in basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leech Out, King In

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a mostly rough-draft sort of story, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. I have so much fun with these characters!

               “For once, I’m not here to fight, buttercup. I’m the bearer of glad tidings.”

                “Oh? Did they find a cure for acute skeeviness?” Marianne asked.  She could practically hear his brain box grinding its gears on the other side of the chicken coop walls.  Roland sure was pretty, but he made her chickens look like Nobel Prize laureates.  She stuck the last egg in her basket and stepped out of the coop, back into the barn’s shaded over hang.  “Careful,” she warned. “You’ll catch fire to this straw with all that thinking you’re doing. There’s only so much one brain cell can do, you know.”

                The happy façade fell and his lifted his lip back in a sneer designed to only enhance his features.  He’d probably spent hours perfecting it which only made it that much harder for her to not crack an egg in it. “You don’t know how much I delight in the fact that you’re someone else’s problem now.”

                Movement in his car caught her attention. Someone young, blond and probably sillier than Roland sat in the front seat of his rental.  Marianne almost felt sorry for her.  “I could say the same for you.”

                “I came here thinking I at least owed you a little word of warning, just so you weren’t completely caught off guard when he shows up, but, no.” Roland’s shoulders lifted and fell.  “Your attitude’s just convinced me otherwise.”

                “What are you on about now? I’ve got work to do.”

                He laughed, the sound so loud it disturbed a goat sleeping under the big oak. “Work to do? Oh, give up, Marianne. This farm is sinking fast, sugar.” He glanced around, eyes narrowing in on the ramshackle farmhouse with its steeply pitched roof. It must have left a sour taste in his mouth because he smeared the back of his hand over his lips and brought his kerchief out of his pocket to tap at the beads of sweat glistening in the midday sun. She hated how he looked at this place.  Hated even more that she’d been so young and so stupidly in love as to give him fifty percent share as an engagement gift.  She’d been regretting that decision the last four years of her life.  Every day.  Doubly so during the random times he’d come poke her with a stick and ask why their little farm wasn’t churning out any money.  “I’m jumping this ship,” he said.  “I held on long enough in any hopes you’d actually make something of it and bring in a little money.  So I did the next best thing and found some idiot willing to blind buy my share.  Like I said, you’re his problem now.”

                “You sold your share!”  

                “Nearly three days ago. It’s all said and done, Marianne. No sense getting upset now.”

                “Who?” She stepped towards him. “Who did you sell to?”

                “No.” He started back for the car. “You haven’t been very nice to me, even after I came all this way to tell you.”

                 “To gloat, you mean.”

                He just kept walking.

                “Do you want me to tell the hens about the bugs crawling on your pecker or what?”

                He flipped her off without so much as a backwards glance.

                “Damn it, Roland. Who?”

                He turned back to face her. “You really want to know?”

                “Yes.” And no, deep down she knew she didn’t fucking actually want to know who.  Because with Roland’s Cheshire cat grin, Marianne knew he’d just screwed her all over again.

                “Ask me nicely.”

                Marianne bit down on a curse, the egg basket’s handle squeaked under the twisting fury of her hands.  “Please.”

                He stroked the front of his pants. “Nicer.”

                “Oh, fuck you.” Before her brain even registered it, she’d chucked an egg at his head, the deep orange colored yolk smearing down the side of his face.  She wasn’t sure who was more shocked, him or her. Marianne stood there blinking until a deep, bone shaking laughter spilled up over her breast.  She was laughing so hard the next egg nearly missed.  By the third, he’d started running. And she’d channeled laughter into banshee screaming, egging the mother fucker again and again.

                His tires spun and gravel spewed, spitting at her and biting through her denim overalls like tiny hellfire demons.  She heaved the basket for all she was worth, it bounced off the trunk, spilling into the overgrown grass.   

                “Fuck you, Roland.” She wiped at the tears, refusing to believe that whoever he sold it to could be worse.  There wasn’t a soul in existence who could compare to him.      

 

             

                Bog wished to fucking hell he’d gotten more details from the realtor.  Like a phone number.  Because he was pretty sure he was lost out here in a place people called God’s country.  Which, he could only assume was because this was where people came, got lost, died and met their maker.

                GPS bitched at him to make another turn and he contemplated throwing his phone out the window.  Thanks to that stupid thing, he’d been down two legitimate dirt roads, both lined with brush and briars.

                A small wooden sign nearly overtaken with a flowering vine caught his eye and he slammed on the break.  Relief momentarily filled him, followed swiftly by acute dread at the state of the dilapidated sign.  ‘Charming fixer upper’ the realtor had said, but Bog knew a line when one was being fed to him.  He just hoped the place was livable.  And the other property sharer wasn’t a total fucking flake.  Or better yet, wasn’t even around. 

                He backed the car up and turned onto Primrose Farm’s small lane for the first time.  Dense foliage gave way to bright sunshine and rolling idyllic hills.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that yet.  It was a far cry from the neon lights he’d left behind, but it was so fucking green his head hurt.  He parked and peeled his body out into the warm air cussing the shiny sardine can of a car the entire time.               A sheep—or goat?—something bleated at balefully from a pen.  Bog glared at it, dragging his cigarettes out of his suit pocket.  He stuck one in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply.  His first glance at the house was obscured by his long exhale of smoke.  ‘Quaint and cozy’. Realtor talk for small and outdated. But it looked clean enough.  Clearly someone either lived here or frequented the place regularly. 

                The rest of the place was just…farm. Outbuildings.  More animals—a horse with long ears, chickens. He didn’t know what he’d expected, or what he wanted for that fucking matter.  But at least this was different.  Some of the pressure lodged in his chest had shifted the moment he’d signed the papers on the ‘plot of green rolling hills and exquisite views’. 

                 He’d bought a farm.  And not even a great farm, one that was on its last leg and dying.  His entire staff probably thought he’d bought the fucking farm in a more metaphorical sense and perhaps he had because this was seriously going to be his home until the thought of going back to Vegas didn’t leave him wanting to jump off the nearest skyscraper.

                “You fucking lost, big guy?”

                Bog shot around at the hot tempered voice. A little female tucked into denim overalls and a floppy hat glared at him. The hoe-or spade?—in her hand held as if more weapon than landscape tool.

                Her breath hissed out, and she paled. 

                Her eyes, something about them had his gut struck tight, the cigarette smoke suddenly making his lungs seize. 

                “Oh. No.” She breathed heavily.  “Fuck. No.”

                “Who are you?”

                “You don’t recognize me?”

He looked at her again and something sparked.  He threw his cigarette down, grinding his heel over it. She wasn’t his usual type, but there’d been enough he’d been bound to forget one or two. “Listen, if I ever bought you—”

“Fuck you, King.” She lifted her hoe-spade and aimed it at his chest. “Do you insult every woman whose name you can’t remember by assuming she was some whore you paid for?”

                The blade of the thing pressed against his suit. He threw his hands out peacefully but she didn’t back down, her teeth grinding together as she practically snarled at him.

“The only time you ever tried to screw me was over your bullshit no fringing on your customer rules.  As if you fucking owned Vegas.”

                A memory sparked in his mind.  “Summerfield…” The name rolled off his tongue unbidden.

                “Marianne.”

                Temper flicked up his spine and he shoved at the press of her tool, pushing her until she stumbled backwards.  “Douglas’ daughter.  The one he had running his show along with that blond monkey. You preyed on my high rollers.”

                “Preyed my ass. You just couldn’t handle a little solid competition.” She whipped her hat off, sinking her teeth into it, looking more than a little insane as she internalized a scream.  Finally she threw the hat at him. “Jesus fucking Christ, never thought I’d see the day that Roland bested the control freak of the strip. God, I just wanna smash his smug little face in.” She screeched again, the sound hurting his ears.

                He reached for his wallet, flipping it open. “How much?”

                “I swear to fucking God, you’re going to want to choose your next words carefully, King. I will kill you and bury you under a pile of barnyard manure so thick no one will ever find your bony ass. How much for what?”

                “You’re perfectly safe from that sort of an offer, Summerfield.  I prefer my women with at least a modicum of sex appeal. I’m buying you out. Your share. How much?”

                Instead of the interest or even relief he expected, he saw only fury contort her face. She lobbed her weapon at his head again, he ducked, narrowly missing getting beaned by it. 

                “I wouldn’t sell to you if the land opened up and swallowed the farm whole, leaving nothing but a weeping water line in its place.” She made as if to swing at him again and he stupidly reached for it, opening him up for the sharp kick in the shins her boot delivered at lightning speed. “How bout I buy you out, you sad excuse for a chicken roost!”

                Splinters bit into his skin when he ripped the thing out of her hands and threw it as far as he could.  He didn’t for one second think it would completely disarm her.  So long as she still had her teeth and nails, he was still in danger. 

                “What’s your price?” She demanded.  “Name it.”

                He laughed, wishing so very much he wouldn’t lose a finger if he patted her on the head. “I’ve seen the numbers.  You haven’t got two pennies to rub together.  I suggest you take my offer now.  It’s only going to go down in value the more you annoy me.”

                “Numbers don’t always tell the whole truth.”

                Disgust and disappointment welled in his chest.  “Been keeping your hand in the till?”

                “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.  Do you know the best way to get a leech to let go?  You drain the fucking blood.  When there’s nothing left to suck, the leech falls off, looking for a new host.  So, yeah. There’s no money, you’re right.  But there could be. Roland didn’t know his dick from a stick in the ground and he sure as fuck didn’t know whether this place was pulling what it could.  And now, he’s gone.” Her eyes glimmered, the gold color reflecting the green of the farm around them. “I have _starved_ the past four years, I have _frozen_ every winter because I couldn’t always afford food and heat.  Finally, finally I can eat again.  I can find some fucking comfort.  I’ll be damn if you take that from me.”

                Bog backed up, putting distance between them.  She vibrated with an honesty that unnerved him, made him uncomfortable.  It was rare he couldn’t buy obedience.  And most of the time, that was just from his own mother. 

                He didn’t want to…screw her over. He just needed a fucking bed. Something to do for the three months he’d taken for himself.  Maybe it would be better this way.  Less mess in the end when he was ready to return home.  She’d have her farm and he could just walk away and pick up where he’d paused his life. 

                “I’m staying through summer.  Don’t argue, Summerfield. You want this place all to yourself? You let me stay.  I’ll sell my share to you dirt cheap and you’ll never have to see my ugly face again.”

                “What exactly are you going to do for three months here? I don’t fancy a parade of showgirls and casino pets in and out of my house.”

                He almost laughed at that idea. If only she knew that the thought of a parade of showgirls and casino pets made him want to jump off the nearest skyscraper.  “No, I’ll help you.”

                “Help me?”

                “With the sheep.”

                “Sheep?”

                He gestured to the little white creature and the few friends that had joined it at the fence.  “Sheep.”

                “Sheep.” She echoed, nodding slowly.  

  He cautiously pulled his bag out of the car, waiting for her mouth to screw back up in anger.  But she just bemusedly stared at the sheep, mouth now puckered slightly.

He slipped his hand across the back of his neck, hazarding a guess that he was wrong based solely on her expression. “Not sheep?” he asked.

                “Not sheep.”

                “Goat?”

                “That’s right, big guy. Goat.”  

                Her annoyance practically dripped in the air between them. 

                “Three months,” he repeated. “I’ll let you buy me out.  Ridiculously cheap. It’s all yours. I just need three months.”

                “I want it in writing that you will sell to me ‘ridiculously cheap’ at the end of three months and that you’ll be out of my hair.”

                 “Consider it done.”

                  She sneered just a little. “Don’t expect me to pamper you. You do your own laundry, cook your own food, mind your own business.”

                  She started towards the house and he followed. The food thing wasn’t an issue, he knew how to work a microwave.  The laundry…well. That was what google was for, wasn’t it?

                   There was more light than he expected in the old house.  It gleamed over the wood floors and worn throw rugs. 

                 “We’re gonna pretend you own half this house and I own the other half.  Living room, kitchen, bathroom are neutral territories. Upstairs is strictly yours.  Back hallway is strictly mine.  You step one foot past the bathroom and I’ll consider it an invitation to introduce you to Sister.”

                “Sister. Fawn? No, Dawn. Dawn, right? I vaguely remember her.”

               Marianne shoved open the second door at the top of the stairs. “Sister is what I named my .22, King. And yes. The other sister is Dawn. She’ll be tickled you remembered her but couldn’t tell a goat from a sheep.”

                His retaliating snark died on his lips.  The room was nothing fancy. Just a brass bed and old, worn dresser. There weren’t even curtains over the windows.  But the blankets look worn and comfortable and the room smelled soft. An eternity of bone-weary tiredness screamed out in him for that simple bed.

              He dropped his bag to the floor.  “I’m sleeping for a while.”

              “Aim for three months and this whole trainwreck-in-the-making might just be painless for the both of us.”

             Bog tugged his tie. When she didn't immediately leave, he leered down at her. "If you're hellbent on staying, cupcake, then you're taking your clothes off too."

            She disappeared.  He threw the tie, but yanked the bed sheets down and climbed in, not caring enough to even remove his shoes.  Three months and he’d be back to normal.  His life would be back to normal. 


	2. Pity for the Kitty

On the third day, Marianne was starting to wonder if he’d taken her seriously about just sleeping the summer away.  She’d forced herself to go up there twice already just to make sure he still had a pulse.  And as she came in from the morning feeding, she figured she was going to have to poke him with the broom end again, but the sound of the shower running caught her ear. 

                Just as well.  She had places she could dispose of his body, but the idea of all that effort left her tired. 

                Unlike some people, she couldn’t just sprawl in a bed for three days and sleep. 

                Uncapping the roll-on bottle of muscle cream she kept in her pocket—so much so that her overalls had the shape permanently etched in them—she tugged her top to the side and rubbed it in, waiting for him in the kitchen.  If it wasn’t for the pungent smell of the cream and the deep ache in her shoulder, she’d have wondered if she weren’t dreaming all this up.

                Bog King, owner of Castle Casino, the crowning jewel of the Vegas Strip for the past fifty years was naked in her shower.  God, he was every bit as coarse and harsh as she remembered.  He’d frightened her years ago, more than she’d have ever admitted even under torture.  But time had hardened her into something that frightened most men so she figured they were well matched enough now. 

                She couldn’t remember how many times they’d fought.  Most of them taking place on the two hundred feet of sidewalk that separated her father’s casino from his.  He accused her of preying on his high rollers, and it wasn’t _entirely_ inaccurate. Her task was to target his entire customer population, but when she’d won over three of his biggest customers to her father’s Sunrise Casino, Bog had blown a gasket.  And she’d made it her own personal mission to bring in as many of his high-end clientele that she could.  It resulted in them putting on a more of a show than the entertainers they hired for their lounges and the spectacles always garnered them more customers.  People came to Vegas to be entertained after all. 

                A sigh rippled the top of her coffee mug as she stared aimlessly through the kitchen window. She’d thought she was doing important work.  She’d thought she was the only one capable of doing that job for her father and that without her, the casino would suffer. He and Roland had claimed she had the most diplomatic charm of any employee of the Sunrise. In the end, she’d learned the only reason she got that particular position was because she looked good in a skirt and sex sells. No one had ever thought Marianne Summerfield could do more with her life than act like the casino’s mascot sex object.

                The bathroom door opened and his tall, skinny form appeared in the doorway. His hair was slicked back from his face, and although he’d shaved, his jaw still appeared rough.  But it was the charcoal, high end suit that had Marianne the most baffled.  She nudged an empty mug on the counter.

                He slowly blinked at it. If she wasn’t mistaken, faint humor pulled at his mouth.  He filled the Sunrise Casino mug with black coffee. 

                “You gonna charge me if I drink this?”

                “Maybe.  Have you come to your senses yet?”

                He lifted his eyes to look at her from over the mug.  They were a pretty blue, something she’d expected to find on a sweet baby. Not a grown, crass, angry man. The first time she’d ever seen them, she’d thought the color was trick of the neon lights. 

                “I’m staying.  I meant what I said.  Put me to work.”

                “You plan on weeding in that get up?”

                He shuffled a bit, a frown darkening his face. “I packed on auto-pilot.”

                Marianne didn’t say anything. There was no doubt in her mind that the suit had been tailor made for his form, but it hung so limply on him as if he’d recently lost weight.  The drape only accentuated the skeletal shape of his build.  Waist wise, he’d probably fit into her jeans.  But they’d only cover him to his knees at the most.          

                “I think I’m going to have to take you to the Wal-Mart.”

                “The Wal-Mart?”

                “That’s right. In these parts, it’s not Wal-Mart. It’s _The_ Wal-Mart.”

                “I think I’d rather tend goats in this than go there.”

                The utter distaste on his face made her laugh.  “Give yourself a month here and you’ll feel right at home there.  For now, we’ll stick to the mercantile in town.  It’s a little mom and pop shop that can always use the fiscal love.”

                In the end, she forced him into her truck.  His shiny little rental was nice, but Marianne wanted the control of her own vehicle and she wouldn’t be caught dead in a luxury sedan in this town.  No one around here had that kind of money, except Dawn, and she generously poured herself and her money back into the community. The last person who’d breezed through here flashing his wealth was Roland.  And he’d left such a bad taste in people’s mouths that Marianne still wasn’t quite considered a local and she’d lived her two years longer than Dawn, the town’s sweetheart.  The last thing Marianne needed was to be associated with another rich dick.

                She aimed the truck down the shaded lane off leading off her property and a small niggle hedged at the back of her mind.  “I probably don’t have to tell you that you can’t _buy_ a woman here.  And that you really shouldn’t even ask, right?”

                “Your concern with my sex life flatters me.”

                “Your reputation isn’t a secret, King. And I’ve had plenty experience with men who aren’t satisfied unless there’s a new woman every week to know that my fears aren’t unfounded. This is my home, my community.  I really don’t want to field complaints from a handful of farmer’s daughters over you.”

                “Their virtues are quite safe with me, I assure you. Women who aren’t used to accepting money for sex tend to overcharge men they find repulsive for services that could be best described as adequate.  And believe me, when a man’s paying, he doesn’t want adequate.”  He bent his arm on the window sill, the aggravation in his profile just barely visible in the corner of her eye as she drove.  “I can’t imagine that in the three months I’m here, I’ll have to suffer the local population often enough to be accused of tainting the precious women folk.”

                “Let’s hope not, I would just hate for some sweet thing to spoil your bitter demeanor. God forbid you should find someone not working for a buck from you and lose that stick up your ass.”

                “You don’t seem to understand, Marianne. I don’t want equals, I want serfs all eager to please me. Dogs who fight over bones of attention.  Nothing would please me more than to have the entire world at my door begging for a dollar.  Everyone likes you when they want something from you.”

                She sucked in a deep breath, reaching for the radio to cover the sour air between them. She’d have felt sorry for him, but apex predators tended to only eat the things that pitied them.   

                A minute into a throwback Shania Twain tune and Bog’s big hand clenched over the volume control, turning it down with exaggerated deliberateness.

                “I can’t listen to this.”

                “This?” Marianne asked. What guy got upset over Who’s Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?

                “Country. I’d rather listen to nails on a chalkboard.”

“Well.” She cranked it back up. “It’s illegal in these parts to listen to anything but.”

                “For fuck sake.”

 “Think of this as a submersive cultural experience.  We’re countrifying you.”

                “You’re killing my brain cells.  Weakening me.”

                “Wait till I get you a ball cap.”

                He grimaced and patted his pockets.  No doubt looking for a cigarette.  When his hands came up empty, he sat back, as if resigned to suffer in silence. But a soft sound caught her attention a short while later and when she glanced over, he was asleep again, some of the harshness seeped from his gaunt face.   

 

                This time of the day, the mercantile had a decent stream of customers.  Most of them farmers gathered round the coffee pot at the front of the store, so Bog was able to shop in relative peace despite the curious glances he got.  Marianne followed him, giving him enough space he wouldn’t feel crowded, but her amusement couldn’t quite bring her to go any further.  He stared at the racks of jeans, pushing them with a knuckle as he browsed. 

                “Why do they have rhinestones on the ass? I’d feel like a peacock.”

                “It’s because you’re looking at the women’s jeans, big guy. And I think rhinestones might add a little something, if you ask me.”

                Red tinged the taught skin over his cheekbones. 

                “I figured with all the flannel, this was the men’s.” He pointed to the nearest rack of shirts.

                “We country girls wear flannel just as well as the next man.” She led him towards the side of the store nearest the fitting rooms and briskly pulled a handful of jeans off a display.  “Longest they got, go ahead and try them on.”

                While he disappeared into the curtain partitioned dressing room, she stopped by the socks assuming all he had would be dress socks to match the black dress shoes he wore.  Guessing at his size, she grabbed a bag and wandered back towards the room.

                “Shoe size?” She asked.

                “Fifteen.”

                She gave a low whistle.  Thirteen was biggest size these socks went to, he was gonna have to deal. 

                “Marianne!”

                She turned automatically at the sound of her sister’s voice and oomphed when Dawn hit her full speed. She nearly fell back into the curtain behind her. 

                “Dawn,” Marianne strained to hold her up. “You’ve gained weight.”

                Her sister immediately dropped her legs back down, but she tweaked the end of Marianne’s short hair. “And you’ve lost weight.  Again. I’m worried about you, Summerfield.”

                Marianne tugged defensively on the front of her overalls. “I’ll put it back on soon enough.”

                “You should let me buy you breakfast.  Josephine’s got hot cakes and sausage gravy today.”

                “Well, it would be just plain rude if I said no to such a sweet offer.”

                “I’m glad you think so.  Her new grill cook is single and rumor is his back seat’s been going through a dry spell a while if you know what I mean…” Dawn’s voice faded and she took a notebook out of her purse jotting things down. As one of country music’s top songwriting duos, Dawn and Sunny both had a hard and fast rule that the world stop when inspiration hit.  It still irritated Marianne to the ninth degree when they’d shush her mid conversation and scratch at their little notepads.

                “No, Dawn.  Bad Dawn. Stop trying to set me up with every guy who’s got a free Friday night, would ya?”

 She clicked her pen closed and pointed it at Marianne’s chest.  “I’m only asking this because I care and I want you to be really honest with yourself.  When’s the last time you actually got laid? By something that didn’t require double A’s?”

                Marianne choked on air. “Dawn, no.” She tried to lead her sister away from the curtain and the man who was certainly overhearing everything but Dawn held off.

                “We’re both big girls now, honey, there’s no shame in talking about this.  And I know you don’t think your heart needs a man, but every now and again the kitty does—”

                Panicked, Marianne ripped open the bag of socks and stuck one in Dawn’s yapping mouth.  Behind her the curtain slid back and heat slid across the back of her neck.

                Dawn did a double take, her eyes traveling up the long, long length of Bog King. Marianne’s pulse sped up. He looked more dangerous in dark denim and a white t-shirt than any man had the right to. 

Dawn slowly spit the sock out. “I may have been a little presumptuous with the pity the kitty speech.”

                Marianne hefted another sock. “You want me to gag you again?”

                Dawn held her hand out, head cocked. “Well, color me delighted. Dawn Delaney, and you are?”

                “Bog King. Marianne’s new roomie.” He glanced at Marianne from under his hooded eyes, clearly enjoying the way Dawn revved up in nearly scandalized excitement.

                “Indeed?” Dawn drew him closer, all smiles. “Well, let me be the first to welcome you to our little community, Mr. King.”

                Marianne yanked their hands apart.  “Roland sold him his share of the farm. And this is _the_ Bog King, Dawn. As in Castle Casino Bog King.”

                Dawn’s head continued to tilt, until she held it at a nearly painful angle.  Bog tilted his head too, lining their gazes, his smirk almost predatory.

                “And you’re Dawn Summerfield. Delightful and I’d imagine quite delicious.”

                “It’s Delaney now.  And she’s delightfully and deliciously married,” a male voice said as an arm snaked around Dawn’s waist. 

                “Sunny, thank God.” Marianne didn’t like the way Dawn suddenly stared at Bog, as if he were a wounded little bird.  And she didn’t like the way Bog was looking at her as if she were a scandal waiting to happen. 

                “I was just acquainting myself with Marianne’s new business partner, Bog King.”

                Bog held his hand out.

Sunny didn’t move.  “Nice to meet you.” He turned towards Marianne. “I had kind of assumed that after Roland, you were going to be a little more conscientious on the type of man you date.” 

                “He can hear you.” Dawn nudged Sunny’s stomach, dislodging his arm.  “Are you here shopping, Mr. King?  May I assist you?”

                He held his arm out and Marianne frowned, watching them wander the store.  Dawn held his arm…gently.  As if the man were going to break into a million pieces under her touch.

                “What’s she know that we don’t?”

                “Beats me. Last guy that hit on her walked home with a limp and a stiletto heel stuck in his thigh.”  Sunny paused. He pulled a notepad from his pocket, jotting something down. 

                Marianne wondered if she shouldn’t start charging them for inspiration.  “Aren’t you going to do something about this?”

                Sunny shrugged. “Like what?”

                “Um, separate them? He was blatantly hitting on your wife.”

                ‘Yeah, I kind of think that had more to do with you than it did with Dawn cause it wasn’t her he was looking at, Marianne” Sunny patted her arm consolingly.  “This is a you-problem. Not a Sunny-problem. A you-problem. Unless he hurts you, then he’s a Dawn-problem and a dead man.” 

                She sneered at her brother-in-law’s arm until he dropped it back down to his side.  When Dawn and Bog paused by the winter clearance of heavy, lined overalls and jackets Marianne leaned her arm over the nearest rack and said, “Stop pushing Carhartts on him, Dawn.  His time expires in three months and he won’t be needing them where he’s going.”

“Expires…are you?” Dawn’s eyes welled up with big crocodile style tears.

Marianne snapped her fingers. “You have heard something!”

“I mean, I’d heard that he’d had a couple episode and took a few month’s hiatus, but when I heard episode I assumed it was something mental, not physical. God, do you need to sit? Are you tired? Marianne, why the hell are you marching him around this store when he’s…oh, my God! Is that why you’re here? To die?”   

“I’m not dying, Jesus.” Bog jerked away from Dawn, suddenly unable to put enough space between them. “And they weren’t episodes, Christ.  A man can’t lose his temper without someone assuming he’s gone off his fucking rocker. I’m not insane and I am not dying.”

“You just decided to buy a share of a failing farm hundreds of miles from Vegas?” Marianne drawled. “Cause, you know, that sounds totally sane and rational.”

He ripped the shirt out of Dawn’s hand and pushed back into the changing room. 

Marianne pinned her sister with a sharp glare.  “Spill, Delaney.”

“I already told you what I know. And now, we’ve embarrassed him.  You can be so mean, Marianne.”

“He flirts with you and I’m the bad guy?”

“Flirting with me maybe, but clearly pushing your buttons. I’ll stand by my word and buy your breakfast this morning, but you’re buying his. And if you don’t, I’ll call Daddy and tell him you’re fraternizing with the enemy.”

“I wasn’t the one making puppy eyes at him,” Marianne muttered. 

“Finish up your shopping, apologize to the poor man and meet us at the diner. You of all people should understand what he’s going through right now.”  

                Marianne glared at Dawn’s receding figure. It wasn’t right that a little sister could grow up, be the first to marry and suddenly decide she was the authority figure in the relationship.

 

                Stopping at the counter to make a small purchase, Marianne waited for Bog by the front door.  He didn’t look at her as he pushed out into the sunshine, arms laden with bags.  They walked silently to her truck and he stuffed his new things into the back of the cab before climbing in.  Marianne winced as he slammed his door and her truck rattled. 

                She pointed it down Main Street, driving a short block before pulling up in front of the diner. “We’re having breakfast with Dawn and Sunny. My treat.”

                “I’ll wait here.  Thanks anyway.”

                “Listen, King. About what Dawn said—”

                “They weren’t episodes.  I just got fed up.  Just. Over it for a while.  I’m just taking a little vacation.” He rubbed his hands over the knees of his new jeans, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable.

                “Hey.” She held out her palms. “I’m the last person who’d judge you on that score, okay?”

“Right.”

“No. Really.” She unbuckled, turning to face him on the wide bench seat. “How do you think I ended up here?”

His blue gaze skated her way before returning to the parking meter in front of her truck.

“I was born into Vegas. Just like you.  Raised in the casino.  Taught from the first that nothing came before the casino. We all sacrificed ourselves, our lives, our souls to it as if it were a living, breathing god that demanded tribute.  I never knew any better. But I wasn’t happy.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.  It was hard then to measure the real depth of my misery, as I hadn’t known any other way of life. But I started having these breathing fits.  Like something was sitting on my chest.  Five doctors, a team of psychologists and they diagnosed me with panic attacks.” She picked at the fading leather wheel with her thumbnail.  He shifted on the seat.  “Outside the casino, I was fine. Normal. The moment I walked inside…”

“The walls closed in on you.” His voice was velvet soft. 

Marianne nodded. “I’ve never seen my dad so disappointed as he was the day he learned I wasn’t fit to inherit his legacy.” And that memory still hurt a little so she shrugged, brushing aside the old pain. “Anyway.  Long story short, I ended up here.  Engaged to Roland because it made everyone happy. Dad got his heir, I got my peace and quiet and Roland got the keys to the kingdom.”

“You never married him? Roland?”

“Yeah, no. Cheating pond scum. Lowest life form imaginable. If it moves, he’ll try and stick his dick in it.” She snorted softly, a little wry humor moving through her chest.  “I guess I should be celebrating because he’s officially gone from my life. Like, legitimately gone.” She nodded, a weight lifting off her shoulders as the reality really sunk in. “Get out of the truck, King.  I’m buying breakfast. I’m a free woman once again.”

“That mean you’re trading the double A’s for the grill cook?”

Marianne laughed, because it was laugh or flip him off. “I’m not discussing my sex life with you. And you leer at my sister like that ever again and we’re gonna go around.”

“That a threat?”

“Damn skippy. You might be as tall as the day is long, but I can take you down, King.”

“It’s cute that you think so.” He opened his door and Marianne grabbed his arm.

“Wait, I almost forgot.” She pulled the baseball hat she purchased out of its bag and tucked it over his head, surveying him with a lopsided grin as he gazed back at her with dry amusement.

“You look good, King.”

“My IQ’s dropping as we speak.”  

“That’s just your blood sugar.  Come eat some of Josephine’s sausage, gravy and biscuits and you’ll be alright.”

She shoved out of the truck, waiting for him on the sidewalk. Together they walked into the diner. 


	3. Snipes and Tomato Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many warm thanks to everyone who reads this!!

Bog woke up in his bed, face down with bright light covering his body like a warm, heavy blanket.  Like a distant dream, he had vague memories of Marianne challenging him to a sausage gravy and biscuit eating contest.  He’d had two entire platters.  Marianne had polished a total of four off.  If his hazy recollection was right, Dawn and Sunny had to drive them both home. 

He rolled over and scratched a hand through his hair.  He had images of Marianne falling down face first on the couch, sleeping there with her hand dangling down in a large cardboard box full of baby chickens—chicks, he thought they were called. Any other circumstance and he’d have assumed he’d dreamt that part, but this was the same woman who had random animal skulls stashed around her house and big stems of plants drying from racks on the kitchen ceiling.  There probably was a box of chickens in the living room.

If the light was anything to go by, he must have slept three or four hours.  The hallway outside his room was dark and cool.  A laundry basket waited at the base of his door. It was full of all his new clothes—his country duds as Dawn had called them.  They were washed and folded.  He moved them into his room, stashing them in the dresser that rocked slightly every time a drawer was opened.  He was glad Marianne’s decorating hadn’t extended to this room, or at least, there weren’t any skulls in here.  But there were little rocks and crystals gathered in a tray on top of the dresser.  And a small clear jar labeled “American Robin” full of little grey and orange feathers.  Either she was a witch and she killed the creatures then harvested their parts, or she was a forest mermaid, collecting body parts that she fancied as she came upon them during her wandering.  

He found her in the big garden, little birds flitting over her head as she kneeled at the base of a row of very large, bushy plants.  The floppy hat covered her head but today she wore jeans and a tank top, exposing the long, lean lines of her arms as she weeded. She hummed softly, occasionally stopping to stroke the belly of a cat sunning next to her.  Outside the perimeter of the six foot tall pole fence covered in tight wire, chickens paced and pecked at the grass.  They made soft noises and watched him with curious eyes as he let himself in through the gate. 

Witches had animals.  Mermaids didn’t.  But he couldn’t picture this woman killing things just for their body parts.  So perhaps, she was fairy.  Some creature born to magic, both dark and light. 

He sank down next to her, one leg sprawled, the other bent, his arm resting over it.  He faced out, watching the blue sky and sea of green that stretched out from her little house on the hill. 

“You’d think after all that food this morning that I’d be full for days.  But I could eat again.”

A small bee landed on Marianne’s arm, flying off again before he could shoo it. 

The side of her mouth pulled back into a smile.  “This morning?”

“The diner. I’m never challenging you in an eating contest again.”

She was silent, her smile deepening ever so slightly as she pulled little plants from the dark soil.

He sighed. “How long was I asleep?”

“Another three days.  It’s quite impressive, actually.”

“Huh.” The bee landed on him and Bog resisted the urge to slap it dead.  The little creature didn’t seem to like the springy hair covering his arm because it lifted and flitted to Marianne’s arm where it wandered in bee-like delight. “You did my laundry.”

“Wasn’t sure if you were ever going to wake up.  I just wanted something clean to bury you in.”

                The cat rolled leisurely, bits of dirt sticking to its white fur.  His purr competed with the droning of bees fluttering in and out of the plants at his back.  “So what are these you’re growing?”

                “Tomatoes.” She parted the dense foliage, pointing out a cluster of green globes.  “They’re just now starting to take on color.  In a week or two, we’ll be picking at sunrise and our tomatoes will be on plates at some of nicest restaurants in the entire state by dinner.”

                “How do you get them from here to there?”

                “A couple of local kids started a locavore business. They buy specialty items from farmers, in my case, heirloom tomatoes, and sell them to high end restaurants straight out of the back of their refrigerated box truck.”

                Bog twitched when something touched him, suspiciously watching as another bee circled a flat, brown mole at the base of his thumb.  “You know, you’d probably make more money if you sell directly to the restaurants.  I could do that for you.  I could negotiate prices with them if you get me a list of the business these kids are working with.”

                She sat back, brushing the hat back from her forehead.  Sweat glittered on her skin.  “It might be hard for a shark to understand, but herd animals don’t go for each other’s throats.  We band together because our strength lies in each other.  If I do as you suggest, and go around Stuff and Thang, then they’ll be out money.  My pockets will be a touch fatter, but that sort of money isn’t going to make or break this farm.  It will, however, deeply affect those two kids who are just starting out. Let’s imagine a scenario where they go out of business and have to move away.  Thang’s sister relies on him to help raise her three kids.  If he goes, she goes.  She’s not only a good customer of mine—her brood goes through dozens of eggs a week, she also owns an antique shop on Route 20 and sells my goats milk soap for me there.  Her place is wildly popular with interstate travelers and the majority of my soap sales come from her.  So if I begrudge Thang a little bit of money that helps keeps him afloat, I’ve just shot my own foot.”  She dug her hand deeper into one of the tomato plants, coming back with two bright red fruits. Her slim fingers wrapped around his wrist and flipped his hand over, settling one in his palm.  “I feed my neighbors first.  Because if they go hungry, I’ll end up starving.”  

                She bit into her tomato, the juice glistening against her bottom lip until she licked it away.  Her gold eyes watched him quietly.

                He thumbed the firm shape of the tomato in his hand.  “I can’t imagine living in a world where every little decision I made had the potential to devastate someone else’s existence.” He tasted the fruit, its sun-warmed skin filling his mouth.  Bog couldn’t quite remember ever eating something that tasted quite so real. 

                Her head tilted, her thumb gently catching a bit of juice making its way down his chin.  “Every decision you make _does_ affect someone else, Bog. Even more so than with me.  You’re head of Castle Casino.  Thousands of employees rely on you.  The city relies on your casino.  Your reach spreads out far and wide, a ripple that affects people who may have never even heard your name before.”

                A humorless laugh shaped his mouth. “Well, that’s depressing.” He had to look away from her.

                “A man in your position could do great things.”

                “I have little interest in going above and beyond for people who don’t even like me.  I’ve been spurned since childhood, Marianne.  A freak in the beautiful world I was born to.  I don’t care if they’re happy. I don’t care if they’re fed. I take care of me.” He lifted the tomato to his mouth again, but her hand grabbed his wrist again. 

                Her other hand gently swept up the little bee curiously circling the outline of his first bite. 

                “An attitude like that will only hurt you in the end.”

                He bit into the bright red flesh. “Everything hurts me in the end.”  Her fingers slid from his skin and he watched her turn away from him. “Everything.”

                Marianne set the bee into a bright yellow tomato flower.  “You’re grouchy when you’re hungry, so I’ll make you a deal.  Dr. Pare is coming out to float Joseph’s teeth today.” She gestured over at the long-eared horse standing under the shade of a large tree. “You clean stalls while I do that, and then I’ll make you a tomato pie for dinner.”

                “Why do you want the horse’s teeth to float?” 

                “Horse?” The side of her mouth pulled back in that side smile and he sighed, chucking the rest of the tomato aside.

                “You can’t tell me that’s not a horse, damn it. I’ve been to actual racetracks, you know.”

                “Right. Well, Joseph is a mule.  Not a horse. He’s a hybrid between a donkey and a horse.”

                Bog stared at her suspiciously. “A hybrid? I feel like you’re pulling my leg.”

                She just laughed, her face tilted back to the sun. 

                He pulled his phone out and googled it. Then sighed and put it away.  “Fine. Mule.  I still don’t get the floating teeth thing and what the hell is a tomato pie?”

                “A tomato pie is the closest you’re gonna get to heaven on a summer day. The teeth thing’s easier to show you than explain.  Now,” she lifted a small bucket next to her.  “Let’s throw these grubs to the snipes and get Joseph ready.”

                “Snipes?”

                She pointed at the birds wandering the yard. 

                “Those aren’t chickens?” He looked back at her to see her pulling a bottle out of her back pocket.

                Her mouth pulled back in that smile as she tugged her tank and bra strap aside, rubbing what smelled like chemical warfare over her shoulder. 

                “For fuck’s sake.” He couldn’t help but track the motion of her hand over her skin. “How the hell are those not chickens? I’ve never heard of a fucking snipe in my life.”

                “You also thought my goats were sheep.” She stood. “Throw the grubs, feed the snipes, let’s get this day finished so I can feed your grumpy ass.”

 

                Bog did as she asked. The snipes fought over the grubs, making Marianne laugh.  She reached down to catch a random snipe, hugging it to her face so she could bury her face in its feathers.  She showed him how to clean stalls and introduced him to twin baby goats shoaled up in one of the bigger stalls.  Marianne sat down, laughing as they bounced around her. She wrestled with them like a gangly legged kitten. By the time she got back to her feet, straw clung to her hair and clothes. Her hand lingered at the same shoulder she’d rubbed cream into, but she kissed the baby goats’ heads and gave the mother goat a piece of carrot from her pocket. 

                They tied Joseph up in the middle aisle of the barn just as a red pickup truck parked up by the house.  The veterinarian let his dog out of the truck bed before walking towards them. Marianne was kneeling the moment the dog’s feet were on the ground, her arms open. 

                The animal bowled her over, tail wagging, licking her face in abandon as Marianne’s laughter danced along with the dust motes in the afternoon sunlight.  

The Dr. paused briefly at the sight of Bog, but held his hand out. “Dr. Pare.”

                “Bog King.”

                “You’re Marianne’s new partner?”

                He nodded. 

                The vet set his bag down, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up. “Good. She needs some help around here.”

                “Do not.” She sputtered when the dog’s tongue lapped her open mouth. She sat up, briskly rubbing her face with the back of her arm, leaving dirt smeared across her face. 

                “You do. You just don’t know you do. You also need a dog.” Pare said with a pointed glance at his own dog who looked at Marianne as if the sun rose and set on her command.  “Lizzie’s pups’ll be here in a matter of days.”

                Marianne’s face softened and she caught the dog’s muzzle between her hands again. “Are you gonna be a momma? Are you gonna be a beautiful momma?”

                The dog licked her again.

                “I’d give you first pick, Marianne. You only have to ask.”

                She got to her feet, brushing her pants and shirt.  Straw still lingered in her hair though.  Her nose wrinkled and she shoved her hands into her pockets.  “Nah. I’m good, Pare.  But thanks anyway.”

                But Bog saw something in her eyes as she looked at the dog, a sort of heartsickness he couldn’t begin to understand.  He stood by watching as she and the vet basically gave the horse—mule’s—teeth a manicure, filing them down to even lengths in his mouth. 

                When they were done, the vet rolled his sleeves back down. “Wife wanted me to get some eggs from you if you have them.”

                Marianne nodded. “Bog, would you fetch some from the coop?”

                He slipped through the small door into the little living space.  The laying boxes were on the far wall, and even though Marianne had said the snipes wouldn’t peck him if he reached under them, he still by passed the boxes with snipes actually sitting in them and just grabbed waiting eggs in empty boxes. 

                Pare smiled as he took the bag.  “Thank you kindly.  I swear, Marianne, your chicken’s lay the best eggs.  I think it’s because they’re so happy here.”

                “You mean snipes. Snipe eggs.” Bog said, slowly sliding his eyes to where Marianne had frozen.

                “Snipes?” Pare laughed.  “Marianne, you been pulling this poor man’s leg?”

                Bog turned towards her.  Marianne started backing up towards the barn’s open door.

                “Why you running from me, Summerfield?”

                “I’m not,” she replied coolly.  “I’m making haste in the opposite direction.”

                Bog reached for her but she spun on her heel and dashed out into the sunshine.  And she was fast.  But his legs were longer.  He caught her up, her squeal echoing around the farm yard.  A goat bleated a reply in the distance. 

                “You’re in trouble now.” He threw her over his shoulder.

                Breathlessly, she ordered him to put her down, her sides heaving with laughter against him, her feet kicking in the air.  When he purposefully walked towards the large water trough butting up against the side of the barn she clung to him, now trying to frantically swing her legs down to wrap around him. She squealed again as he bent over, dropping her down into the water. 

                She came up coughing and laughing.  He waited till she cleared the hair from her face before pushing her under again just for good measure.  She splashed at him when she surfaced a second time, alternating between hiccupping coughs and sputtering laughter. 

                He rested his hand on the edge of the tub, leaning over her. “Now you’re going to tell me why you don’t want a puppy, or so help me, you’re going back under.”

                All the wild joy seeped from her face and she wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “Way to ruin my mood.”

                He held a hand over her head and she jerked back, lifting her own to block him should he try and dunk her again. 

                “Why?” He asked.

                She shrugged, picking a piece of straw that floated by her out of the water.  “I was supposed to get one after Roland and I got married. You know, the universal symbol for starting a life together—you get a puppy to prove to society you can actually raise and train a creature, making you fit to be parents.  And then that dream just fell through.”

                “Plenty of single people have dog’s. You don’t need a wedding license to own one.”

                “Well, no, I know.” She stood, her wet shirt clinging high on her stomach, exposing the dark dimple of her bellybutton.  Bog’s throat closed at the unexpected sight.

Slinging a wet leg over the edge, she slid out to the ground. “But a part of me—and I’ll kill you if you tell Dawn, but a part of me still…” she waved her hand in the air. “Wants that.  The husband, puppy, baby thing.”  

                “So get married, Marianne. Jesus, you act as if you’re not everything a man would want.”

                She paused, arms wrapped around herself. “I said a part of me and I meant a part of me. A very small part of me, the one kernel that Roland didn’t destroy. I would be an utter idiot if I gave that piece of me to someone else.” Pain glinted in her pretty eyes. “That’s all I have left, you know.  And it’s so frail already…” her voice trailed off, her mouth pinched around the words. “The idea of that life is nice.  But the reality of this life where I’m more or less whole isn’t worth trading for any dream.”

                He watched her slosh her way back up towards the white house.  Chickens trailed in her wake and the sun glimmered off her wet hair. She saw herself as a vessel of broken pieces, little bits of her personality scattered here and there inside of her.  She’d have been better off if she could see what he saw, a multi-faceted jewel.  Many different sides, some smaller than others, but they all came together to make something too beautiful for this world. It was silly to hide the small, soft parts because the whole of her together seemed stronger than any force on earth. 

                And as much as Marianne might deny it, that softness was a bigger part of her than she wanted to admit.  This was the woman who slept on the couch so she could cuddle baby chicks, the woman whose knees went weak at the sight of a dog running towards her.  The woman who’s laugh could warm a man from across a room. She’d fall in love again.  He’d never been so sure of anything before. 

“I’ll forgive you for the snipe thing, but if tomato pies aren’t real, you’re getting another first class trip to the water trough.”

                A faint laugh danced back through the air to warm him.


	4. Tadpoles

Marianne gazed at the early morning sky, her heart light despite the sound of the scuffle taking place in the pen next to her.  Forecast called for storms tomorrow, but today was nothing but blue skies and sunshine.

                “A little…help…here.”  Bog panted, then grunted when the big mule lined him up against the railing and leaned into him, effectively pinning him there.

                “Now where’s the fun in it if I jump in there and save you all the time?”

                “Marianne!” Bog pushed back, the weight and muscles he’d packed on in the past month and a half bunching and moving under his skin.  The shirt that had once been slack on his body now moved with him, stuck to him almost like a second skin as he fought Joseph.

                Her mouth twisted in wry humor because no matter how much she fed the man, the weight went to his shoulders and not an inch lower.  Broad shouldered, lean waisted and long legged, he had the body of a brawler.  He was no match for the big love-sick mule, but still, Marianne enjoyed the sight all the same.

                “You know what he wants, Bog. Just give it to him and he’ll let you go.”

                Bog gnashed his teeth, arms straining.  “Not….encouraging this…by rewarding….him!” His ball cap fell off to the ground, she snatched it out from under the fence railing before one of Joseph’s big hooves could flatten the bill Bog had finally got shaped right. Between the hat, the torn up jeans and dusty work boots he kicked around in—he was starting to look like he’d been born country.  
                “Suit yourself.” She pulled his hat over her own head, the bill facing back from her face.  It smelled like him.  “I’ll just be here.  Waiting.”

                Bog was too busy bringing one knee up, wedging it between his body and Joseph’s shoulder to reply. Knowing he’d have to give in sooner or later or spend the day stuck against a fence, she turned to her phone. 

                Dawn answered with a yawn and a whiny mewl.

                “Rise and shine, Delaney.”

                “Too early.”

                “It’s a heatwave, sunstroke, ice cold beer kind of day.  You and Sunny should come swimming.”

                Silence stretched and Marianne dug the toe of her boot into the grass. “Okay, you write that down, I’ll continue to talk.  Grab a couple cases, chips or salad—something cold—and I’ll take care of the rest of the food. Towels, sunscreen, bug spray because God forbid a mosquito mar your perfect complexion and get your asses out here.” She hung up, not waiting for her sister’s response and turned around to find Bog standing with his arms thrown around the mule’s neck.  She sighed in relief.  “See? That’s all he wants, Bog.  Just a hug from you and now he’s set for the day.”

                The mule looked quite pleased with himself, his eyes big and soft, tail lazily switching. Bog, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to spit nails.

“Daft beast.” He said it with so much guttural distaste that Marianne almost believed it.  Except for the way his long fingers petted Joseph where they lie.

When Joseph decided the hug had lasted long enough, he backed up, letting Bog go but not without rubbing his big mule lips over the man’s cheek.  Bog swiped at it and all but threw himself over the fence.  

“You got a little mule slime on your cheek. We should go wash it off in the river.”

He glanced towards the sloping hills where they disappeared into the thicket of trees lining the river’s journey as far as the eye could see.  “Thought we were going to harvest chamomile and mint for your soaps today.” He reached for his hat, but she ducked away, walking backwards as he followed her.

“Supposed to rain the rest of the week, big guy. If we don’t swim today, the river’s gonna be too big of a bitch to get in for a while.”

“Then I don’t see how we can’t not go.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“What the hell’s that?”

Marianne spun around, following Bog’s suddenly furious glare, her stomach dropping.

He snatched the hat off her head and shoved her sideways, sending her hopping on one foot until she regained her balance.  Eyes a heavy blue under the thick of his brows, he winked at her from over his shoulders as he slid his cap back.

“That’s cheating, King.  If you can’t get it back the honest way, you don’t deserve it back at all.”

“What? You’d rather I wrestle it from you?” And he didn’t fully turn around again, but he did angle towards her just enough that she caught a glimpse of the wolf in his smile. “Is that what you’re after, Marianne? You want me to wrestle with you?”

She sputtered, rubbing her hand over the tightness in her stomach. “No, of course not.”

“Hmm.” He nodded slowly, moving towards the house again.

She followed, careful to keep the distance between them. He didn’t make those sort of leering insinuations often.  Which was good, because he was turning out to be damn helpful and she’d hate to squish his scrotum under the heavy weight of her truck. 

But Marianne didn’t think Bog actually…meant it.  The teasing sexual threats. Because she clammed up and then he was fine.  They were fine.  She stooped to pick up the bucket of bell peppers and cucumbers waiting by the garden gate just to put more space between them. It shouldn’t surprise her that a man with his history of women sensed her weakness.  He was used to sexy women, sensual women who could and did freely enjoy sex.  Marianne was—for lack of a real medical term—frigid. 

Of course he wouldn’t want her puppy-like attempts at flirting.  They rank of desperation and she knew it.  He turned his animal magnetism on its lowest level and flashed it towards her and she balked like an untried mare and he knew it.  It probably amused him on some level knowing that Douglas Summerfield’s eldest daughter was all bark and no bite.

But he didn’t lord it over her, which was kind.  Even if he did use to push her back into her corner occasionally.  Which was fine.  Really.  He was a walking, talking poster board for the art of breaking hearts and Marianne had enough broken heart to last a lifetime. 

 

Dawn pushed her cat-eyed sunglasses up on her head and spun in the kitchen doorway, modeling her high waisted, retro two-piece swimsuit in black and red.  The shame shade of crimson was painted on her lips.  “Found this at an adorable little boutique in Memphis.  What do we think?”  

“We think you look like something out of an old, naughty calendar.” Bog grinned. “I had a real soft spot for those in my teens. Starting to wonder why I ever stopped.”

“You like it?”

“It’s making me feel very…nostalgic.” His deep voice caressed the word and Dawn giggled.

Marianne slammed a big bag of ice on the floor, breaking it up into smaller piece.

“Marianne, you haven’t even changed yet.”

“I’ll go now.  I just finished making the food.  Sunny, you and Bog can start loading this stuff into coolers.” Marianne smiled at her brother in law and set the broken ice in the sink. 

 

Swimsuit on, Marianne was scrubbing a healthy dose of sunscreen into her arms when Dawn knocked softly and pushed into the room.

“Marianne. Is that…the only swimsuit you have?”

“Well, seeing as it’s the one I’m wearing, yeah.”

“You’ve gained weight.  You’ve actually got boobs again.”

Marianne glared and Dawn tossed her beach bag onto the bed then perched herself on the edge.

“You’re going to kill yourself in those heels, Delaney. It’s a natural riverbed, not a cement poolside pad.”

“Well, I won’t be wearing them into the water. And besides, this swimsuit screams for a pair of killer heels.” Dawn fingered the necklace Marianne had draped over the bed post. “So Bog’s looking good.  He’s put some weight on and I dare say muscle.  I almost didn’t recognize him sitting at your kitchen counter. Is he seeing anyone? Any of the local girls that is?”

“No.”

“Hmm….his hands are so large.  And his feet…it makes a girl wonder—”

                “Dawn Lorilee Summerfield Delaney, you are a married woman!”

                Her sister gasped in mock horror. “Marianne Ruthanne Summerfield, what did you think I was going to say?”

                Marianne’s upper lip automatically reared back at the sound of her full name and she threw the tube of sunscreen at her sister. “Stop flirting with him.”

                Dawn’s head fell back with laughter. “Honey, I’m flirting with that man about as much as you’d flirt with Sunny.  And Bog? He’s not after me.”

                “Oh, yeah? Cause I’d say he’s one bad decision away from tattooing you in that get-up on his bicep.”

                Her sister giggled again, reaching for a notepad from her bag.  “You’re a goldmine. A freaking goldmine.”

                “I will start charging you.”

                “Worth it.” Dawn capped the pen and tossed it back into her bag.  “So, you’re obviously not boinking him yet.”

                “Boinking? Ew.”

                “You haven’t lassoed him into your bedroom rodeo?” Dawn paused and reached for her pen.

Marianne grabbed her hand. “No, Dawn, oh, my God, no. Not song-worthy.”

Dawn flipped her hand up, wrapping hers around Marianne’s, holding it tight. “What gives? I mean, seriously, Marianne.  What gives?”

No one could hear them, but Marianne lowered her voice anyway. “I honestly don’t think he wants me like that.”

“And if I assure you that he did very much so want you like that? What would you do next?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing.  I mean, maybe I don’t find him attractive.”

                “Oh, wow. You’re nose just grew three inches, Pinocchio.”

                Marianne stared at the rag-rug braiding that her bed sat over, tracing the pattern with her toes.  “Maybe I don’t remember how to get there with a guy.”

                “Just ask him to rub that bum shoulder of yours, honey. After that, nature’ll take its course. I’m not letting go of your hand to write that down, just help me remember it later.”

                Marianne laughed, the sound wet and thick. She pressed the back of her hand under her nose just for a second, sniffing back a burning sensation. “No, I mean…” Her shoulders lifted and fell in humiliation, her words were choked and broken. “I’m frigid, Dawn.”

                Her sister stood, the heels making her so much taller than Marianne. She cupped her face, bringing their foreheads together in a soft whisper of touch. Marianne gritted her eyes shut, hating how much even this soft touch made her feel weak. Finally, Dawn pulled back to kiss her forehead. “You are not frigid. You’re scared. You’ve been scared since the day you found Roland under that bottle-dyed redhead.”

                “I don’t want to get hurt again. I can’t.” She sniffed again, wishing her sister would let her go so she could scrub at her nose again.

                “No, of course not.” Dawn’s thumbs traced her face, bringing back painful sweet memories of their mother. “I’m going to be real honest here.  I don’t see Bog as the long term kind of guy. But he’s leaving in August, right? You know that.  He knows that.  No fuss.  No mess.  Marianne, I think a healthy amount of robust, break the headboard sex would go a long way in getting you back on your feet.”

                “I like this headboard.”

                Dawn’s lips quirked.  “You break it, and I’ll buy you an entire new bedroom set.”

                “You really think he wants me?”

                “Yeah, Summerfield. He does.”

                Butterflies settled in Marianne’s stomach, she touched them with nervous fingertips.  “An end of summer fling.”

                “Yep. Just a little jumpstart back into being a woman.”

                “I can do that.” Probably. Maybe.  She just had to convince him that she was as worldly and sensuous as the women he took as lovers. And that she could be more than adequate at sex.  Bog’s eat-baby-deer-for-breakfast smile filled her mind and her nerves fluttered.  This was either going to be really good or really, really bad.

                “I know you can.” Dawn pulled at the sagging strap of Marianne’s swimsuit. “Is this _really_ the only swimsuit you have?”

                Marianne tugged the strap back up. Her suit was ancient. And saggy. And it used to be pink but now it was bleached by the sun and a rather ugly nude color. She knew it was awful, but it was this or nothing.  And since she didn’t want to make Sunny uncomfortable, nothing was out of the question. “I’ll throw a pretty sarong over it. You’ll never know.”

                “What has been seen cannot be unseen.”

                Marianne only led her sister back to the kitchen, digging into helping the men pack the coolers so she didn’t stare at Bog.  She was going to need three fourths of these beers to get the courage up to proposition him.  And probably the other fourth to actually let him put those big hands on her.

                Her skin warmed at the thought and she smiled a little, feeling hopeful for once about her own body’s response. So maybe not all the beer, just a few.

                Dawn picked up the kitchen scissors and began cutting the plastic rings from a twelve pack of Coke the way Marianne liked to do before she tossed it in recycling. She thanked her and bent over the cooler, pushing things down into the ice, trying to make room for the last bowl of potato salad.

                Her swimsuit strap suddenly gave away and Marianne clutched at it, holding it to her chest.

                “Oh, no!” Dawn set her scissors back down.  “Your swimsuit.”

                “Dawn!”

                “It was so old, I mean, you must have had it forever! You must be so sad, Marianne.”

                Dawn—”

                “Of course you can borrow my spare, it’s the least I can do for my big sister.  You’ll find it in the bag on your bed.”

                “Dawn.”

                “You should go change quickly, we’re burning daylight, you know.”

                Marianne glared into her sister’s beaming smile, leaning in close enough to see her own reflection in her eyes. “The only reason you’re not dead is because there’s witnesses.”

                Dawn picked up the scissors again, giving them a saucy little snap as she winked.  “I can’t pretend to understand your meaning.  Go change.  And then burn that thing.”

 

                Marianne had never felt so exposed in her life. And the black swimsuit wasn’t risqué, by any means. It was by definition a one-piece.  The top was a bandeau style and covered her very modestly, and the bottom was a conventional—if a little bit skimpy—bottom.  But it was the macramé-like weaving that stretched over her naked skin from breast to lower abdomen that left Marianne’s nerves on edge.

                It was sexy.  It made her feel sexy. After all these years, there was finally something on her body that made her skin ache to be seen.  And it was terrifying. 

                So she wore her big hat.  And tied on her sarong a little higher than the normal hip height she liked to wear it at.  And she wrapped her towel around her shoulders.  And she ignored the heels Dawn had stuck in the bag and slipped on her flip flops. 

                They were all waiting for her in the truck.  Sunny took her hand and helped her up into the bed where he sat with the coolers.  Dawn had taken the cab with Bog, her heeled legs sticking out the window of the old Ford.  Sunny slapped the roof and Bog set off on a sedate pace along the grass-grown path leading through the hilled pastures and down towards the river. 

                “You cold?” Sunny asked, gesturing to the towel she gripped at her neck.

                Marianne very reluctantly let it fall just a little. “No.”

                Sunny held his hand out, fingers making grabby motions. She rolled her eyes and handed him the towel.  He sighed in dramatic relief. 

                “Can I just say how glad I am Dawn finally freed you of that travesty you’ve been wearing the past six or seven summers? Cause this? This is nice, Marianne.”

                She didn’t say anything and Sunny grinned, his smile stretching the freckles on his cheeks. “Awe, you’re blushing.”

                “Shut up, Sunny.”

                He kicked open a cooler and handed her a beer, then sat next to her on the edge of the truck bed, hugging her with a brief kiss to her head.  “Nice to see you happy again.”

               

                The river was one of Marianne’s very favorite things about her property.  It was like a microcosm of life in her own back yard. The flora and fauna here was so very different than that at the top of the hills where her house sat.  Instead of bees, dragonflies darted about, skating over the quieter parts of the water’s flow.  Instead of the scent of sun warmed dill from her garden and earthy animal, the air was sweet and thick, a vibrant scent of both life and decay that belonged only to the river.  She was always happy here. 

                Dawn tied one end of a rope to a tree on the bank and the other to a fancy, inflatable pool float.  With a beer in the cup holder, she climbed on and let the current draw her out into the river until the rope drew tight. She bobbed out where the sunshine fell between the trees lining the shores, reclining like the star she was. 

                Marianne took a quick stock of the animals in the general vicinity, forgetting to take off her sarong until the river caught it and pulled.  She wadded it up, stuffing the bulk of it under her arm as she slowly followed a little school of minnows along the shallows.  They darted like drops of liquid mercury around her ankles. 

                A circular shape off more towards the shore caught her eye and Marianne lunged for it. She caught the shell of the turtle, lifting it out of the water.  One look at its right eye had her squealing and jumping.  She almost dropped the sarong and hastily threw it over a nearby tree branch. Then nearly fell face first as she splashed back towards the others, large turtle held high over her head.

                “Dawn! Sunny! It’s Stinky! It’s Stinky! He lived!” The river bed dropped off and she bobbed down in the water then scrambled for purchase, coming up again, water pooling off her body.  She laughed, waving the turtle about, nearly ramming straight into Bog’s bare chest.  Already running on a high from the turtle, the sight of his naked body was like a blow to the head and she swayed dizzily, the sun and heat going burning straight through her skin.    

                He held his hands up to catch her and Marianne only barely remembered the animal and she jerked back, cautiously extending the turtle between them.  “Um, snapping turtle.  He likes fingers.”

                “He?”

                “Stinky.” Marianne glanced at the hair on Bog’s lower abdomen and nearly lost her grip.  She cleared her throat, her voice as high and tight as her body felt. “I found him last summer with a hook through his eyelid. By time he came to me though, he was sick and weak.  He improved after a lot of tlc, but when I released him in the fall, I wasn’t entirely sure he’d survive hibernation.” She jiggled the turtle. “But here he is.”

                “He’s hissing at me.”

                “Yeah, Stinky’s an asshole.” Sunny said from the shore as he flipped on a small radio. 

                “Marianne, you should show Bog those sperm-things you like.”

                “Um, Dawn.”

                Her sister waved her beer down current.  “Where the shallows pool. You know. The baby frogs.”

                “Oh,” Marianne snorted in relief.  “Tadpoles.” Not sperm-sperm. “You, um, like them? Tadpoles?”

                “I don’t think I’ve met one to know.”

                “Well, it’s a bit late in the season, if we see anything, they’ll likely have their legs already. But we’ll probably see a few tails still.”  She sank back down in the water, kicking out, leaving Bog to follow her.  She deposited Stinky’s angry butt on a shoal and pushed out into the fastest part of the river.  It caught her, the water cooler as it was deeper.  Bog swam until he caught up to her, his shoulders smooth and graceful as the dark river moved over them. 

                There was a bend in the river and then she started angling towards the warm shallows.  More reeds than trees grew in the area and a great deal more sunlight touched the water.  The beach was larger here and the water collected in tiny pools.   She knelt next to one, legs half in, half out of the water. 

                Little not-quite tadpoles-not quite frogs darted about, too fast to see.  She patted the rocky sand next to her. “They think we’re here to eat them.  Sit, they’ll settle and you’ll be able to see them.”

                His legs joined hers, his body shading her and the water some from the sun. Slowly, Marianne dipped her fingers into the water.  Little green bodies wiggled up from the depths, their tails like cute little flags behind their bodies. 

                “They like you,” he said, his voice pitched low.

                “They’re curious.” Marianne pulled a deep breath down to her navel and made herself look at him.  His face was soft as he watched the little underwater creatures.  Sunshine warmed the hollows on his face, highlighting the phenomenal blue of his eyes.  Warmth dipped through her body and she exhaled.  Moving before she could lose her nerve, she glided to her knees and caught his face, bringing her lips to his and sinking against his wet body as if coming home. 


	5. Monsters in Vegas

The sweetness of it didn’t last but two seconds. Bog shoved his hand against her abdomen and Marianne yelped in surprise, sprawling back into the shallow pool, its stagnant scent dispersing into the air around them. 

                “What are you doing?” He swiped his hand over his mouth, face repulsed.

She gingerly pushed upright, clutching her knees to her chest, but nothing kept the shame at bay.  “I was…kissing you. I just thought…I mean…everyone knows that you…um.”

“I fuck prostitutes?” He stood, his shadow falling over her again and this time Marianne scrambled out from it, shakily getting to her feet.  “And you thought you’d jump in and be just another pair of spread legs in a never ending succession?”

                “No, Jesus, Bog.” Her voice was so hoarse it hurt. “Why are you so angry?”

                “Oh, I got over angry a long fucking time ago.” His laugh was cold, mirthless.  “Did your father put you up to this? And don’t you lie to me, I’ll see it in your fucking eyes.”

                “No!” She jumped when he grabbed her arm, dragging her up out of the water and onto the beach next to him.

                “I said don’t lie!”  
                Marianne jerked her arm back and shoved his hand when he reached for her again. He stepped towards her and Marianne hissed, mortification turning to temper. She shoved him again, backing him into the shallows. “Don’t crowd me, King, I’ll break your legs and throw you in the river.”

                “Did your father put you up to it?” Crimson slashed across his cheeks.

 “Yeah, my dad totally told me to kiss your stupid face.” She kicked sand at him. “My father would be _horrified_ , you idiot mule-hugger! Why on God’s green planet would he _want_ me to kiss you? I don’t even remember why _I_ wanted to kiss you!”

                He drew up at her words, fists clamping at his sides. “Wouldn’t be the first time a member of ‘The Elite’ used a woman to try and ruin me.”

“Kinda doubt my dad would throw his own daughter at you to-to-to what, Bog? Take advantage of you?” Hot frustration knotted in her throat and she rubbed at it until it hurt.

“Would it surprise you? Douglas always did like shaking you under my nose every chance he got when you worked for him.” His mouth firmed and he climbed up the little bank, heading back towards the river.

                “And what do you mean the Elite?” She darted towards him, putting herself between him and the water.  “You mean my dad’s little club of other casino owners?”

                “That’s right, princess.  Your dad’s little club. You know the first time I met them?”

                Marianne braced herself, afraid he was going to walk right through her, but he stopped, mere inches left between them.

                “I was nineteen when my father died and the Castle came into my care. Not even old enough to sit at my own God damn bar to drink.  Three days after his funeral the Elite came into my casino. Not to comfort me or my widowed mother but to walk my floor and prey on my customers. Telling everyone the Castle would be closing.  That we were going under. They poisoned the waters everywhere. Vendors.  Merchants.  Banks.  They pulled ranks, trying to cut my throat before I even got out the fucking gate. You call me a shark but you have no idea. When I didn’t cave, when I fought back for my place on the strip? Stan Yenti—I seem to recall you referring to him as Uncle Stan—hired a woman. A prostitute.  Paid her to work me.” His skin paled in the strong sunlight and he stared out at the river. “I had no idea. I fell in love with her.  And they all laughed at me. I was the joke of the strip. Humiliated.”

                Marianne rubbed the pebbling skin along her arm. “Uncle Stan? He wouldn’t do that….”

                “He did do that. And he told the story over and over for anyone who would listen about how much I repulsed her, how she called him the moment she first saw me and demanded more money.  How I cried when I found out the truth after she’d taken my virginity.”

                “Bog.” Marianne reached for his hand and he flinched. She couldn’t touch him, so she touched the space over her aching heart. “That was cruel of her. Of them.”

                “Cruel? It gave me the armor I needed to get through this fucking life. It was a gift. And now nothing touches me. And I can have anything— _anything_ —that money can buy and Marianne? Money can buy _everything_.” He laughed. “I can pay enough now that I don’t even repulse women anymore.  They want me to have them.  They want _me_ under them because of the way it fattens their wallets. And if that isn’t the best fucking thing in the world then I don’t know what is.”

                She drew back as silence fell between them, her feet sinking in the wet sand until murky water filled up around her ankles.  Her body ached in so many places and she didn’t know how much of it was for herself and how much of it was for this broken creature in front of her.

                “You think I’m a monster. An ugly beast that forces women to service me.  I can see it in your eyes. But I never touch them. I never make them remove all their clothes and I never,” he bent close, his breath an angry hiss against her face, “let them kiss me.  I am _not_ a monster. No, the only monsters in Vegas are the ones who created me.”

                For the second time that day, Marianne waited, letting Bog put distance between them.  Thirty yards in the walk back upstream and his proud back had bent, his head down, his body so obviously pained. For all the experience she had in caring for wounded animals, there wasn’t medicine in her cabinet for the crippling infection inside of him.  And even if there were, she knew he’d rather die than let her or anyone else near him.

                She thought of the lightness in him just earlier that morning, the easy smile he’d given her hens as they waited outside the garden for him and Marianne hated herself for stealing the peace he’d somehow found on her farm.

                By the time she cleared the bend in the river, Bog was nowhere in sight.  And the moment Dawn saw her, she slid off her floaty, stroking towards Marianne.  They met in the middle, Marianne catching her hand and bringing her up onto the same shoal Stinky had long departed. 

                “You hate getting your hair wet.”

                “Well, I kind of hate ruining my sister’s life more. Marianne, what happened?”

                “Nothing you or I did.”

                Dawn’s face turned towards the beach where Sunny was stripping his shirt and shoes.  He wasn’t much of a swimmer, but Marianne knew he’d have done anything for either of them. 

                Pain unexpectedly cut through her middle when she realized that Bog didn’t have anyone like that in his life.  With a sigh, she pulled her knees under her chin. “I’m terrified my house is going to be empty by time we get back.” She wasn’t ready to be lonely again.

                “Should we stop him?”

                “We can’t. Even the three of us together couldn’t stop him.  He’ll only hurt us on his way out the door.”

                Sunny splashed into the water, walking when he could, mostly doggy paddling their way otherwise.  He came up on the shoal with them, knees pressed into the sand.

                “I ain’t big enough to fight a Bog, but I am fast enough to get away after I slash his tires. Just say the word.”

                “No, but thank you all the same.”

                “We were just trying to get you laid.”

                “Sunny, you can’t say that to my sister.” Dawn hugged her arm. “We were just trying to get you laid.”

                “Not any less awkward, Dawn.” She pressed a kiss to her sister’s hair. 

                “Is he going to be okay?” She asked.

                “No. Far from it, I think.”

                “I liked him, you know.”

                Marianne nodded. “I did too.  I really did too.”

The quiet of the river held them for a moment, Marianne’s eyes glued to a familiar baseball hat resting on one of the beach towels.  Dawn finally straightened and slapped her hands together. “Well. Since my hair and makeup are now both thoroughly ruined, I suppose now’s as good a time as any for you to teach me how to catch a lobster.”

                “Not many lobsters ‘round here.”

                “Oh, you know.” She made little pinchers with her fingers.  “Those ugly clawed things people always eat the heads off of.”

                “Oh.” Crayfish. “You mean the snipes.” Marianne nodded and Dawn beamed.

                “Yes! Today’s the day I will touch something foul and gross and I will put it in a bucket for all the world to see.”

                “Baby, I’m so proud.” Sunny shook his head with a tender smile. “This is better than the time you touched an earthworm.”

                “I’m really growing into such a country girl!”  

                Marianne laughed, despite herself.  She spent the rest of the afternoon letting Dawn and Sunny think they were distracting her.  If they knew her smile was fake, they never said anything. And if they caught onto the fact that she kept one ear turned towards the horizon, as if she’d somehow hear the house door slam and tires squealing as he made a beeline back to Vegas, they never brought it up.    

                And if they suspected that she was withering away inside with each passing hour, they were kind enough not to point it out. 


	6. Riding out the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to all you patient people! Mommy of two and the littlest has been sick (no fun for anyone!) Hope everyone has a FANTASTIC WEEKEND!

He’d stayed one more night here just to prove that he wasn’t fucking weak.

                Nothing touched him.

                He could buy anything he wanted.

                Those were the two single good aspects to being Bog King.

And he planned on exploiting them to the fullest.  His personal assistant was currently overnighting his passport to the penthouse suite of the nearest Park-Hyatt. After a night back in the world of luxury he was accustom to and he was off to London.

Eager to feel like himself again, he pulled the silk lined suit jacket out of the closet and slipped it on. The new muscles he’d gained stretched the shoulders tight, but with his foray into manual labor over, it wouldn’t be long before his favorite suit fit perfectly. 

Turning the light off, he left the room with only the things he’d brought from Vegas.  The jeans and t-shirts sat in the dresser.  No doubt Marianne would recycle them into bedding for one of her precious animals.

                The tv blared downstairs.  He ignored it.

                But the blaring radio in the kitchen was too much.  He slapped it off, annoyed with the full cup of coffee still sitting on the counter next to a bowl of untouched muesli mix.  Pushing the Sunrise Casino mug out of the way, he grabbed the Cartier watch he’d left on the window sill after washing dishes one night.  Slipping it on was like welcoming back an old friend.  

                His stomach growled in anticipation of the hearty breakfast he’d grown accustom too but Bog ignored it.  He wasn’t two and half hours from the Hyatt.  Food could wait until it was room service.

                Shouldering his bag, he left the tiny skull, crystal, feather and sunlight covered house behind. 

                She stood in the driveway and didn’t so much as look his way. 

                Bog unlocked his car, setting his bag on the passenger seat.  He still had to decide on a price for her to buy back the share she so desperately wanted.  He’d said dirt cheap. And he’d give her dirt cheap.  Inflated with Vegas prices.  Sure as fuck wouldn’t be what the local hick population would consider cheap, but that wasn’t his problem.  None of this was anymore.  He was looking forward to London.  A man could get lost there.

                An older police car rolled up, gravel crunching under its tires.  Bog eyed it warily.  If she was trying to say he was trespassing, her price was tripling.

                “Bit early, Stewart,” Marianne said as the cop climbed out. “Something wrong?”

                “Not yet.” He gave her a grim smile. “You been watching the forecast?”

                Marianne nodded and Bog glanced up at the clear blue sky. 

                “We’re making rounds, making sure you more isolated folk are aware of what’s coming our way.  What’re your plans with the livestock?”

                “I’m moving them down to the low lying pastures by the river.”

                The cop brushed his hat back with thumb. “Now, Marianne, should there be a twister and it hits them trees down there, you ain’t got nothing for protection on those animals from flying debris.  Last tornado came through here killed three dairy cows over at the Stanford farm. Two by fours clean through their middle.  Most gore this town had seen in years.”

                Marianne made a soft sound, her eyes flickering to the goats bawling for their breakfast.  “I could keep them inside the barn. If that’s safer.”

                Stewart shrugged. “’Spose you’re damned either way you look at it.  I seen tornadoes clean entire buildings away, as if man had never set foot on the land before. Shit, with mother nature, there just aint no sure way to win.” He looked at Bog finally.  “You the feller she got out here helping.” It wasn’t a question. “Make sure she gets to that cellar, our Marianne likely the type to ride it out with her arms wrapped around her animals.”  

                “I’m leaving,” he said, ignoring how Marianne ducked her head and tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “But I’m sure Marianne will do as you suggest and be safe.”

                She didn’t say anything. 

                The cop leaned his arm on the top of his door. “Leavin’? Ain’t you just got here though?”

                “Something’s come up.”

                “Yeah, well.” The cop looked at the western horizon. “Where you headed?”

                “North.”

                “Best you leave soon then.  You clear Staunton City, you oughta be free of these cells.” The cop turned back to her.  “You gonna be alright out here alone? I could call and see if one of the off duty boys’ll come stay with you.  Help you get them animals situated and the farm strapped down.”

                “No, I’ll be fine, Stewart. I’ve done it on my own the last four years.”  
                “We aint had a storm like what they predictin’ is comin our way in nearly ten years.  Your generator up to snuff?”

                She nodded.

                “You got plenty of gas for it?”

                She nodded again.

                He sighed. “Well. You keep that phone charged and you make sure your butt is down in that cellar well before it needs to be, yeah?” He pointed his pinky at Bog. “You get on the road.  No dallying. You don’t wanna be on the freeway when this shit knocks over our heads.  Marianne, I’ll be out to check on you soon as I can. Mind you, if these roads get blown over with trees, may be a few days before I can be here.  You keep your head on straight and you’ll be alright, girl.” He stopped and leaned in his car, turning his radio up loud enough that the announcer’s voice filled Marianne’s yard.

                _We have a confirmed tornado on the ground outside Clintonville, moving east at sixty miles per hour…._

                Stewart turned the radio back down and slid in.  “That’s just the other side of the state line. Clocks ticking, Marianne. You don’t have but maybe an hour and half before shit goes south round here.”  He pulled his door shut, turning the car back around until it pointed back down the lane.

                Bog shook his head.  Looks like he was getting the fuck out just in time.  “We need to discuss this business of my share.”  He turned to see Marianne already gone, the screen door on the house slamming in her wake. 

                He went after her, staring at the western horizon.  It was so beautiful out right now, not a cloud in sight. Hard to imagine that a single rain cloud, let alone a tornado was out there somewhere.

                Then again, yesterday had started off the same way and look where it had ended. 

She was in the living room on her hands and knees, catching baby chicks from their box and loading them into cat carriers. The chicks were getting in their feathers and had become what Marianne termed “cheeping, pooping birdbrains” a phase she’d assured him they’d grow out of eventually. Her hands were shaking as they chased after them, lacking in their usual finesse. Her breath came in soft, shallow pants, the only color in her face the twin red spots burning bright on her cheeks. 

She was, he realized, nervous. Upset.  And he didn’t bother flattering himself it was about him leaving, but rather the approaching storm.

 Her whole world sat up on this hill.

It sort of took the fun out of jerking her around on the price.

He stood in the doorway, irritably deflating as he watched Marianne’s stiff, robotic movements and glassy eyed stare. He sighed and unbuttoned his suit jacket, giving himself a little more breathing room.  He’d still hose her with the price, but his lawyers would get the pleasure of dealing with her fire and ire.  “I’ll have my attorney contact you about buying back my share.”

Her movements slowed and she sat back on her heels. “You can charge me for calling you an idiot mule-hugger.”

“Yeah, I would but for the fact that it’s entirely true.” The teasing came easy and he rebuttoned his suit jacket.  She didn’t deserve his camaraderie. 

But she smiled in response to him. Sort of.  Most of her face still seemed a little lost, as if somewhere in the back of her mind, she was counting down the seconds she had left before the storms hit. 

He realized he was just wasting her time.  Marianne wouldn’t go underground to safety until she got every animal and the farm as secured as she could. He needed to get out of her way.

He shook himself.  He needed get on the interstate if he didn’t want to risk his car get pimpled with hail damage or worse.  “You got food in the cellar, yet?”

“I’ve got hay for Maybell and her babies, I’ll move the chick feed down as soon as I get them down there.”

“I meant food Mariannes eat.”

“Oh.” Her eyes trailed towards the kitchen, a frown twisted her brows. “I should do that.  I will.”

“Water too. For all of you.”

She nodded, but it was clear she hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.  He swore.

“Food for you. Water for everyone. Think necessities, Summerfield, vital necessities, alright?” The last fucking thing he needed was to drive off this property worrying about whether or not she had the brains to keep herself safe.

The wind chimes on the porch suddenly tinkled loudly as a sharper wind pushed through, scraping against the house’s siding as it did. Her face paled and she turned back to her chicks.

He needed to go.  “Goodbye, Marianne.”           

“Bog, wait.”

                He caught the screen door before it slammed, easing the upper half of his body around it.

                “You forgot your hat.” She pointed to the stack of towels on the dining room table, his baseball hat on top.  Images of Marianne stealing it, plopping it on her head like a game of capture the flag where the real prize was the smile she’d give him filled his mind. His stomach twisted and he shook his head.  He didn’t want anything to do with that anymore. 

“Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say because her mouth dipped before she turned back to her chicks.  When nothing else was said, he stepped outside, screen door whining shut one more time behind him. 

He draped his suit jacket over the back of his seat.  But turned to look at the open cellar doors built into a small mound off the house. They looked sturdy enough. She’d be safe enough for sure.  If she remembered to pack everything she needed.  He glanced at the trees around the yard, deciding that if any of them were to fall, they weren’t likely to block the doors.  Even if they did, she’d survive three days stuck down there assuming there was adequate ventilation and she didn’t forget to feed herself.

                But none of that was officially his problem anymore. 

                The western horizon drew his eye.  There were clouds there that weren’t there before.  Marianne was going to have to hurry if she planned on moving all these animals. 

                The house door whined and she rushed off the porch, two cat carriers clutched in each hand.  She moved awkwardly. Her body was strong—incredibly strong—but she was so terribly small that practically anything dwarfed her.

                When she disappeared into the cellar, he climbed back into the car, instantly banging his knees against the dash.  He’d forgotten how fucking tiny the little sardine can was. He hadn’t sat in it since coming here.  Knowing his luck, it probably wouldn’t even start having been idle for weeks.

                The engine turned over and purred to life as if it had missed him. 

                He adjusted his mirrors then the height of the steering wheel, trying to buy his kneecaps a little more room.  Movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye.  Marianne hurried back into the house again.  Bog waited, if human food wasn’t the next thing she took down there, he was going to be pissed. 

                The last thing he needed was for her to die. 

                Because he’d have to deal with her fucking dad with farm and his share.  God knows Douglas would find a way to screw him over in the end. 

                She reappeared with a sack of chick feed thrown over her shoulder.  Her bad shoulder none the less.  Bog threw his door open.

                “Human food, Marianne!”

                She waved a distracted hand his way, disappearing into the cellar.  He turned his car off, slamming the door behind him.  If he didn’t put it down there, it wasn’t fucking likely to get there. 

                Their paths met at the porch stairs.  He slammed the screen door open, holding it for her.

                “I’m gathering your food myself,” he snarled. “I trust you’ll actually eat it should you be locked down there. I can’t sit here and babysit you.” 

                The mounting breeze ruffled her hair as she moved past him. “I’ll eat, Jesus, Bog.  But if I don’t get these animals put up, then I’m going to have bigger problems than just food. Like money. To ever buy food again.”

                She stomped to the empty one gallon jugs scattered over the dining room table, gathering them into her arms before stomping back out.

                “Well, don’t fucking thank me!” He yelled after her.  In the kitchen, he shoved her bowl of uneaten muesli aside, making room for one of the coolers they’d used on the river yesterday. There wasn’t much ice left in her freezer but he dumped it all in, then settled in yesterday’s leftovers.  He packed a bag of dry goods from the pantry. Then slapped together a sandwich. He set it on the cooler lid and carried them outside.  She was at the spigot, filling her jugs.  He thrust the sandwich at her.

“You made me a sandwich?” Her eyebrows drew up into her hairline.

“Yes. Should I chew it for you too, or do you think you can manage that?”

                “Don’t poke at me, King.” She yanked it out of his hand. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”

                “You’re not in the mood? I should be putting miles between me and this God forsaken plot of green, except I can’t trust you to fucking take care of yourself and you’re not in the mood? Fuck you, Summerfield. Now take a bite of that God damn sandwich.

                She shoved a huge corner into her mouth. Chewed and swallowed. 

                “Another. Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

                She growled, tearing into the other corner. 

                “I’m dragging this into the cellar.” He shifted the cooler. “That sandwich better be gone by the time I get back up here.”

                “And if it’s not?”

                He stepped closer and she jerked back, swallowing the bulge of food in her cheek with one hard gulp. “I don’t make idle threats, princess.  Eat the sandwich.”

 

                The cellar echoed with peeping chicks.  The majority of the long narrow space was divided by hog panels. The farthest one was lined with chicken wire and the chicks pecked at their straw and preened their newly emerging feathers under their heat lamp. Their space was small.  He imagined the bigger makeshift-stall was for Maybell and the babies.  Which left this front portion for Marianne.  Not so much as a cot or blanket waited here for her.  At least there was a weather radio, flashlight and extra batteries tucked into a water proof tote.

                He turned at the sound of her. Laden will full water jugs, she moved slowly.  He jogged up the stairs and pulled them from her.  “There’s more?”

                She nodded.

                “Grab them.”

                He started back down but her hand fell on his arm and it pulled him to an immediate stop.  Cast in the shadows of the staircase, not touched by sunlight above of the glow of lightbulbs below, her face was dark.  But the little of her eyes he could see gleamed.

                “Thank you.”

                He shook her hand free. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you and I don’t fucking want to be here.”

                “I know you don’t want to be here.” There was bite in her words. “It’s obvious.  But you are.” She sighed in the dark and moved as if rocking on the balls of her feet. “And I’m grateful.”

                “Well.” He stepped back one riser, putting space between them. “I don’t want you grateful. I want you operating at full mental capacity.   You’re letting fear weaken you and we can’t do this if it’s just me.”

                She shook her head. “No, I’m good now. Magic power of a decent turkey sandwich.”

                “Decent?” He echoed as she started back up the stairs. “I’ll have you know I ground fresh pepper on that for you.”

                All he got back was a laugh, faded and whipped by the increasing winds. He withdrew to the cellar floor, stacking the jugs on the small, cramped shelves lining either side of the doorway.  Until money exchanged hands, this place was just as much his as it was hers.  The last thing he needed was for his livestock to die.  He had money at stake after all and his profit margin didn’t need a hit like that.

                The next hour passed quicker than it should have, both Bog and Marianne rushing to move animals and secure the farm.  The weather radio sat in the middle of the yard, volume up as high as it could go so they could track the storm’s progress.  And although Marianne often glanced its way, worry clearly dug into the lines on her face, her steady, brisk pace never wavered. The cat was found and stuck in the cellar.  Maybell and her twin kids were moved down and settled into their thick straw strewn bed. 

                She paused in the yard, pulling her phone out and lifting a finger towards him. “Dawn? You and Sunny have been watching the news right? Is your basement ready? No, not your guitars, Delaney.  Food, water, flashlight, radio, batteries, charged cellphone.” There was a long pause and Marianne met his gaze before tugging hers back to the house. “We’re moving animals right now.  Yes. Uh-huh. Tadpoles in my cellar?” Marianne sucked in a sharp breath. “Dawn—no, I’m hanging up now. I love you, too.  Be safe.”

They moved towards the barn in tandem, the bright sun long gone.  Now it was gray and the wind skirted at the edges of things, making the highest branches on the trees quiver and shake.

“Barn or out to pasture?” He asked her, finally making her face the question she’d been avoiding for the last hour.  “Where we putting them, Marianne?”

                She shook her head, eyes flickering between the old red structure and stretch of green down where the river sprawled.  Indecision and fear washed through the gold of her eyes. “Pasture, I think. If the barn falls, they can’t escape. But down there, at least they can run from the storm.”

                He nodded.  “Then let’s get them down there.”

                Leaving the chickens in the coop for fear they’d simply be blown away in the strong winds, Marianne opened the goat paddock gate and accepted the rush of their quivering bodies with open arms and gentle, loving strokes along their sides. Bog released Joseph, nearly getting plowed over as the mule pushed into his body.  He hugged the stupid thing quickly, needing to go grab the truck. Marianne would walk the animals down towards the pasture and he’d follow up the rear with the Ford.

                He jogged across the yard, Joseph on his heels, and slipped into the cab. Putting the window down so the mule could snuffle his arm, Bog set off on a snail’s pace crawl behind Marianne and the goats. The wind carried the sound of the bleating and bawling to him. Joseph’s long ears didn’t stop moving and the whites of his eyes were starting to show by the time they reached the paddock into the lowest pasture. 

                Bog climbed out, throwing the square of hay from the bed of the truck into the field.  The goats, having missed their breakfast, chased after it.  But Joseph lingered. 

                He patted the mule’s shoulder. “Go on, then.”

                Marianne pulled one side of the gate shut. “You know what he wants.”

                “Yeah. I do.” He threw one arm around his neck.  The mule tucked his jaw in over Bog’s back, pulling him in closer until he finally brought the other arm up. “Be safe, you silly beast.” 

                The mule grunted but let him go. Giving his shoulder one last rub, he turned back towards Marianne, helping her secure the gate. 

                She sat in the middle seat right next to him, kneeling with her arms over the bench, staring at her animals through the back window as the truck made the climb back up the hill.  Thick dark clouds, the kind that had real power at their core boiled over the little house.  Lightning touched the far horizon, jerking across the sky in white fury.  Bog didn’t bother turning the radio on, he already knew what it was going to say.

                “We need to go down now.”

                She nodded weakly, eyes clinging to the livestock until he cleared the hill and they disappeared from her sights.  Bog drove straight through the yard, parking next to the cellar.  Rain came down in a slow random pattern. Lightning zapped the sky again, leaving a new energy in the air that pressed against his skin, driving a sudden line of fear down his spine. A few scattered raindrops turned into a monsoon. He held his door open, helping Marianne out after him. Arm over her head, he guided her around the truck and lifted the cellar door so she could slip in.  He followed, latching the doors behind him.  Rain drummed so hard against them that it was deafening.

                But below, the lightbulbs burned golden and warm.  It smelled of animals in that musky sweet way reminiscent of the barn.  Marianne sat in the hay with the twin goat kids, one latched against her chest while the other bopped about, kicking its feet up in the small space. 

                She sniffed, her nose pink but she said nothing.  He chose to sit on the other side of the hog panel from her, on top of the stack of blankets he’d stuck down there earlier.  There was nothing to do now but wait it out. Flipping the radio on, he turned it to the lowest volume. 

                “It’s fine. I want to hear it too.”

                Bog turned it up just as the power went out, plunging them in darkness. He felt for the battery powered lanterns and switched it on setting it out on the floor.  It threw off cold white light and cast odd shadows on the wall.  Wind howled outside, the cellar doors occasionally rattling against their hinges. 

                The weather radio’s monotone announcement added an element of bleakness to the lantern’s light and Marianne huddled tighter around the goat.  A storm warning was out for basically their entire county.  Nothing had been officially spotted, but there was radar indicated rotation and residents were being urged to take shelter immediately. 

                Bog picked up a piece of straw, snapping segments of it off between his fingers.  As unpleasant as this was, her insurance would cover the damage and what they didn’t Bog would. It wasn’t like he’d miss a few thousand dollars and the farm could use the investment.  Especially if Marianne was going to have a profitable year next summer.

                The sudden thud of something heavy falling outside made her jump, he could practically hear her heart racing.  She hugged the goat until it bleated in distress. Arms shaking, she let it go, instead capturing her knees to her chest instead. 

                “They’re going to be okay, right?”

                “Yeah, of course, Marianne.”  That was the shitty thing.  There were things his money weren’t going to be able to fix here. The chickens, the goats, her mule. 

                He found himself praying that it was just the house the storm took.  He could build her a new one of those.  With two bathrooms.  And a working air conditioner instead of the window units she relied on.  A place she’d be more comfortable in. 

                “I might puke that really decent sandwich up,” she whispered. 

                He pushed the hog panel back and squeezed through to sit next to her.  She started to lean her head towards him, as if seeking his shoulder and he reacted without thought, shoving his hands up between them so she couldn’t get too close. 

                He swallowed hard at ache in her eyes.  “I really hate touching.” 

                She gave a slight nod, the lines on her face softening. “I think that’s too bad.  You always look like you could use some.”

                He swallowed again, this time forcing it past a painful lump. “I look that pathetic?”

                Her shoulders lifted in a small laugh. “I’m afraid if I told you the truth, you’d run out into that storm screaming for your life. So the simple answer is no, not pathetic, Bog. Harsh and handsome, brittle and brave, but never pathetic.” She settled her hand on the hay, palm up. “Would you give me a prolonged handshake?”

                “A prolonged…” he shook his head. “You want me to hold your hand?”

                She nodded. He stared at her hand.  The only time he ever saw a palm was when people were expecting him to slide money into it.  Not his own hand.  Unease made him shift.

                She pulled her hand back around her knees.

                This was exactly why he hated interacting with people.  Nothing ever came out right.  “It’s not you, Marianne.”

                “It’s not you either, Bog.” Her shoulders fell, the strap of one overall sliding off.  “I wish I’d known the truth before I made you unhappy yesterday.”

                His mouth dried out. “Not unhappy. Just uncomfortable.” He wished she didn’t know about it all.  He liked it better when she hadn’t.  When he could just be someone he wasn’t with someone who made it easy to forget there was anything beyond these earth and animal filled days.

                Thunder pounded outside, even with feet of soil over their heads, he could still feel the reverberations in his blood.  Marianne shivered. 

                He may as well be a goat for all the comfort he could bring her.  Scooting in the straw just a little, he brought his side up to her back.  Not touching.  But his body heat would at least help keep her warm. He had literally nothing else to give.

                Except money.

                And he didn’t want her that way, like all the other women he gave money to.  Skirt runched up, panties pushed aside, just the bare necessities coming together.  He didn’t want Marianne any other way, but definitely not that way.

                One of the baby goats pushed itself into his arms.  He tugged it into his lap.  Marianne moved, turning until they sat side by side.  She scratched the kid’s soft little head, leaning close to nuzzle it. 

                The scent of her washed over him.  “I have to leave,” he blurted. “Tomorrow or at least the next day.”

                “I know.” She smiled. “Thanks for the staying and the sandwich. And this.”

                He nodded.

                The weather radio droned on.

He did have to go back. But for now, he was here for her.  Taking care of her in the limited way he could. But she seemed to appreciate even that and if it weren’t for the way their world was being torn up outside, Bog wouldn’t have wanted anything to change.  


	7. Good Omens

                Bog turned on the cellar stairs, stopping Marianne from following him up. “Why don’t you stay down here and let me go first. Just in case.”

                She pushed up onto the stair next to him, small but firm. “I’d rather face it with you. I’ll go mad with worry down here alone.”

                She already damn near vibrated with anxiety and he didn’t want her to see anything she wouldn’t ever be able to forget.  But he unlocked the doors over their heads. Marianne was nothing if not tough.  “Just don’t run off, okay? Watch where you’re walking and stick close. Last thing we need is for you to get hurt.”

                She nodded, hands balled into fists, chest lifting and falling with each rapid, shallow breath.

                He pushed the door up, wincing as bits of wet branches fell down on top of them. 

                There was a kind of hush over the land.  The first thing Bog saw was the barn.  A few boards had been ripped off, it looked as it were missing teeth, but it stood.  That gave him the courage to open the door completely, reaching down for Marianne. 

                She unfurled a fist long enough to give her hand to him, letting him help her up over the bigger branches tangled around the cellar doors. Siding littered the yard like shattered white leaves.  He turned with dread, drawing Marianne to his side. But the house was there.  Portions of siding were missing, it looked as if the roof would need re-shingling. And the big maple that had once shaded it was down, stretched across the yard like a fallen giant.

                “It missed the house,” she murmured, eyes on the big tree. “Bog, that’s a good omen. A blessing.”

                He winced, because if the house was a good omen, then what was the truck?  Large branches and debris covered it, the hood clearly dented, tires weighed down in the rain-soaked earth. They wouldn’t get it free without a chainsaw. But Marianne turned to it and smiled.  “Scratches.  Dents and dings.”

                “And a missing side mirror.”

                She just nodded. “I’m ready.  I need to see the animals now.”

                Marianne didn’t wait for him, she just began picking her way through the storm’s debris, leaving him to scramble after her.  She kept her eyes focus straight ahead. So she missed the garden, the plants beaten flat by wind and rain, the western portion of the fence ripped from the ground and strewn about.  She missed the shattered well house, the unaccounted for porch swing that once hung in the shade of an oak tree.  

                He knew none of that mattered to her.  Marianne followed the compass in her heart, pointed straight for the ones she loved. 

                Her pace hit all out run by the time they reached the crest of the hill and he struggled to keep up with her.  Fresh wind carrying the scent of damp earth blew over them as they raced down.  Marianne laughed, shooting him a lightning quick smile. He didn’t miss the challenge in it or the way her legs pumped harder, her arms swinging.  She flew in front of him, moving over the grass grown path as if she were deer-footed.    

                The pasture loomed in front of them.  Empty.  Marianne’s head whipped side to side, looking for any sign of the livestock.  Her pace started to slow, the joy fading. 

                “Come on, Summerfield,” he panted at her side. “Last one to the gate is a dirty snipe.”

                Her nose scrunched and she agilely took the lead again.  Bog scanned over her head, praying for her, his chest on fire as he held his breath in suspended agony.

                Separating from the dense tree cover lining the river, Joseph emerged into the green pasture.  Like little white ducklings bleating for all they were worth, Marianne’s goats followed the mule. 

                As if all the strength had left her body—most of it was probably pumping out of her ear to ear grin—Marianne barely had it in her to scale the fence. Her arms trembled as she clung to it, trying to pull herself over.  Bog laughed and shoved on her back end, sending her over and into the grass.  

                “Dirty…” She panted hard, face torn between outright laughter and full on war. “Dirty snipe. Awful, dirty snipe.”

                He looped his arms over the railing, grinning down as an avalanche of white goats bombarded her, kneeling around—and some on—Marianne’s body.  Their delight was evident.  And Marianne’s muffled, cursing and grunting contentment was the best thing he’d ever heard. 

                Big whiskered mule lips moved over his head and Bog grimaced, jerking back from the fence but Joseph caught the neck of his dress shirt in his teeth and yanked him back into the railing with a big, dumb mule hug.

                Bog brought his arm up. “Stupid pecker.” He brought his other arm up, scruffing his mane, pleased the animal was unharmed.  The farm had survived, a little worse for the wear maybe, but Marianne’s world was still intact. 

                When Joseph was satisfied, Bog undid the latch of the gate, pulling it wide.  Marianne made it to her knees, grass in her hair and a smear of dirt across her cheekbone. She looked like the wild soul she was, born from the same earthy mold as any fairytale creature.  Both beautiful and frightening. Both fragile and indestructible.  Her gold eyes lifted to his and his heart kicked in his chest.  The brute pain of it startled him. 

Palms dry, he locked his gaze on the western edge of the property where golden daylight had just begun to burn through the tail end of the storm clouds.  Sometimes, when she looked at him, he forgot how to lash out first.  How to cement himself behind the barricades before she broke through. 

It was terrifying. 

A musical rift cut through the air. He turned back as Marianne pulled her phone from her pocket.

“Dawn—No, we’re okay.  The farm’s a little windblown, but we’re okay.” Her face lost its easiness and she scrubbed a hand through her hair.  “But you’re okay? You’re certain you’re okay?”

Bog frowned, he didn’t like the sound of that.

“No, just stay put. I’m coming to get you.  Dawn—I am coming to get you and you’re not arguing with me about it. Just sit tight for a little while.” Marianne hung up her phone, her sister’s voice still clearly going in the background. She looked at him then back up towards the house. “They’re fine, but a decent corner of the roof is apparently gone and she’s freaking out that all her new landscaping is ruined.  Also, she thinks a squirrel’s already gotten into the house through the roof and apparently my sister is afraid of squirrels. I’ve got some tarps in the garage I can take them.”

Relieved that it wasn’t anything serious, he still shook his head. “As much as I’d like for you to save your sister from a rabid squirrel, your truck’s under a pile of tree. I’d say take my car, but Marianne, those roads between here and town are going to be impassible with trees and God forbid downed powerlines.  It’s not safe.”

“Unless I go mule back and take as much pasture and farmland as I can between here and there...” Her voice trailed off, leaving them both staring at Joseph. 

“How the hell are you going to get on top of him? You barely come up to his knees.”

Marianne laughed and got to her feet.  The goats who’d settled in the grass to lay with her stood up as well, filling the air again with bleating.  “I’ll wear my boots with the spring in the heels.”

They started the long climb up the hill, goats shooting in front of them, others trailing in their wake. Joseph walked at Bog’s shoulder.

“It’ll take me longer on him.  I might not make it back tonight even.”

Bog nodded.

“Are you going to be okay here by yourself? We could ride tandem—”

“No, th-th-that’s not necessary.” He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “We’ll get more done apart.  I’ll start the cleanup, you rescue the damsel in distress.”

Marianne nodded.  The old farmhouse came into view again. As battered and disheveled it was, they both smiled at the sight of it. 

 

Marianne hadn’t been gone an hour before Bog desperately wished he had thought long and hard before agreeing to stay here alone.  The first sixty minutes had gone incredibly well. He’d quickly catalogued the property, making note of things that needed fixed in order of importance.  The first, the barn. He patched up the gaping holes so that none of the animals got wet.  His boards hung a little crooked, and more than one nail head had been hammered into an L shape against the wood, rather than sinking straight through the way it was meant to be done, but the wood stayed put and it was something he could cross off his list.  And every time he looked at the goofy, mismatched boards pulled from the scrap heap in the shed, he stood a little straighter. 

It was minute sixty one that things began to go downhill. He’d just begun youtubing a video on proper chainsaw use when he heard crying. 

                Female crying. 

Bog’s insides froze.  He stood there for a full minute, trying to convince himself that the sound was going away.  But in reality, it was coming closer.  An awful parallel between his situation and the Jaws theme scratched like a broken record in the back of his mind. 

                Cautiously, he stuck his head out the garage door.  Three women were walking up the lane straight towards the house.  For a moment, he wondered if locking himself in the cellar was an option.  They might go away and try the next farmhouse down the line.  A mile and a half down the line. A line strewn with tree branches and possibly deadly electrical lines. 

                He sucked a breath through his nose.

Fuck.

Fuck him and fuck this.

                What was he supposed to do with crying women? Why were they even crying? The thought occurred to him that they might be hurt and he shriveled somewhere inside.  What was he supposed to do with hurt, crying women?

                Wishing lightening would strike him dead before he even reached them, he forced himself out into the sun.  Forced his legs to move down the lane towards him.

                And just when he didn’t think it could get any worse, it did.  Because one of them had a baby on her shoulder.

                This was his punishment for being an awful, dirty snipe.


	8. Two Clingers and a Bleeder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the love on this! This whole fic is definitely MUCH longer than I had first anticipated, but I'm having a ton of fun with it.

Bog could handle a woman like Dawn.  She might’ve flirted with him, but she wore her happy marriage like a neon sign.  Her utter lack of interest in any man outside of her husband was as obvious as neon on the strip. And like neon, the flirting was just for attention. He knew that should a man ever make a serious advance on her, Dawn would pull on a southern superiority she may not have been born into but still possessed a terrifying command of.

                And aside from the rare Dawn’s of the world, Marianne was the only other type of female he could abide by.  Open enemies.  He didn’t have to pretend, or mince his words. Made things so much easier for him.

                Or it had made things easier. In the beginning.  When things had been different.  Now, he was a man drowning out past the breakers.  Both with Marianne and in the kitchen of her home where three females sat, two of whom sobbed and clutched at him, while the other bled from a gash across her forehead. 

                He had no fucking clue what he was doing.

                No clue how to deal with the blood and pale skin of the only not-crying female—which frightened him because if she were hurt, she should be crying. But she wasn’t. And it terrified him that something bigger was wrong, something he couldn’t see. Internal bleeding.  Something bad.  And she sat in front of him like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode in his face which was generally how he saw every woman but this was different and worse. 

Not helping his stress level were the sobbing females—girls, really.  They were terribly young, even the one with a baby.  Everything inside of him raged to shake them off of his arms and frighten them into their next lives, but the sheer, glass-eyed terror on their faces fucking made it impossible to work past a snarl. 

He wadded up one of Marianne’s kitchen towels and stuck it against the bleeding one’s forehead.  She had the mental capacity to lift her hand and hold it there herself, so he considered that a win. If she were dying, she was least dying slowly.

Then, moving with the girls stuck to his arms, he went to Marianne’s liquor cabinet and pulled out whiskey.  And four shot glasses. 

                Carting the whiskey and glasses and clingy females back to the one half sitting, half reclining across the kitchen island, he poured four very full shots. The first went to the bleeder.  She took it like a champ.  Then he gave one to each younger girl. Shaking, whiskey spilling, they managed to get it to their lips and toss it back.  Both sputtered and choked and coughed.

                His arms finally free, Bog downed his.  He felt marginally better.  So he poured a second.

                The bleeding woman stirred, capping her hand over the whiskey bottle when one of the girls reached for it.

                “Lydia, after surviving a tornado throwing a tree on my car, I will forgive you one shot.  We will not tell your mother. Or your father. It is going to be our great little secret because I am your favorite aunt. But if you pour a second, all bets are off.”

                Bog shrugged, nursing his second whiskey, just grateful that at least that one had let go of him. “I don’t mind if she has another.”

                “She’s seventeen.”

                Bog’s glass hit the table with a solid clunk.

                “I’m eighteen now.  Today’s my birthday, we were coming back from shopping in Staunton when...” Tears started spewing from her.  She leaned into Bog and he—as gently as possible—pushed her away with one finger, steering her into her aunt’s embrace.  

                He sucked a sharp breath into his nose with the other one latched onto his arm. He growled a little more than necessary when he asked, “And how old are you?”

                “Twenty.” She sniffed, her voice thick with tears. “Married and mother of one, if I want a whiskey, I’ll have a whiskey.” She shot her aunt a dark look.

                The bleeder sat up, a little more color in her cheeks and gestured to the baby. “You’ll be nursing him in an hour, you don’t need more.” Then she held her hand out and Bog shook it, touching as little of it as he could without being rude. 

                “Florie Plum. Mayor of Poplar and recent tornado assault survivor.”

                “Aunt Plum, too soon for jokes. Please.” The youngest of the girls, Lydia, touched her stomach, her face a bit green.

                Plum patted her arm. “These are my nieces, Lydia and Nan.”

                When they all stared at him he grumbled out his name.  And no one flinched.  Or recoiled.  Or stared at him as if he were something dirty. 

                And Bog didn’t know what was worse.  Women who did know his reputation, or women who had no fucking clue to be disgusted by him.

                “And where’s Marianne? Not hurt, I hope?”

                “She’s checking in on her sister and brother in law.”

                The mayor nodded. “She’s taken the mule I suppose.  Damn.  I’m going to need to get back to town as soon as possible. Have you heard any reports? Did the tornado hit?” She patted her pockets with one hand, the other still clutching the towel to her forehead.  “My phone, it must still be in the car. Lydia, give me yours.”

                Nan, the young mother, put a fist on her hip. “Aunt Plum, really. You’ve got blood pouring out of your forehead. I’ll call our parents. You let Mr. King at least get the bleeding to stop, then you can start mayoring.”

                Lydia suddenly sobbed. “Oh, God. Mom and Dad, what if—What if?”

                Her tears seemed to infect Nan because she clutched her baby to her shoulder, sobbing as well. Both girls hugged each other. Bog stepped away as subtly as possible.

                Plum reached for the phone in Nan’s hand.  A man answered her call.

                “Phil? It’s Florie. We’re fine.”  Blood was starting to seep out of the towel and Bog brought the large first aid kit Marianne kept in the bathroom closet to the kitchen.  He pulled out alcohol wipes and dabbed the cut on Plum’s head.  There was a good size welt under it, she must’ve had one hell of a headache.  Without asking, he stopped and got her a couple Tylenols and some water. 

                Nan and Lydia were sobbing, but somehow communicating to their parents in this manner that they were okay via the phone they held between them.

                “So you’re Marianne’s new partner.”

                “Yeah.” He waved his hand over the cut where he’d rubbed alcohol, knowing the sting of it hurt.

                “Good.  The last man she had out here was a total chotsky.”

                When Bog shook his head, not understanding her meaning, the woman smiled. “Something pretty you stick on a shelf. No real value other the way it looks.  Serves no purpose but to be looked at.  A dust collector. And totally fucking useless.”

                Lydia stopped crying long enough to say, “Dad said he heard that and you promised not to cuss around us.”

                Plum rolled her eyes. “As much money as I’ve stuck into their college funds, you’d think a few ‘fucks’, ‘shits’ and ‘God damnits’ would be forgiven.”

“They would if it weren’t every ten minutes.” Nan said, then promptly hiccupped. 

“Anyway, this whole town just bout threw a party when we’d heard lady-lips had sold his share.”

“Lady-lips?” Bog repeated, unable to hide his laugh.  “Jesus, Marianne’ll like that one.”

Plum’s eyebrow arched. “Who do you thing came up with it?”

He laughed again. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Marianne’s sharp mouth, and it was an entirely different thing to view it from the sidelines. 

“You two are going to turn this farm into something and it’s about damn time.  Marianne’s paid the penance for having given her heart a fool for far too long. She deserves happiness.”

Bog only nodded because it was true. And it wouldn’t be he and Marianne growing the farm. Or at least, not him directly.  His help would best come in the form of a bigger financial investment so she could afford the equipment and things she needed for expansion.  He might just give her the money, rather than making it a loan. If he could figure out how to make it a tax write off.  Or hell, even if it weren’t one, it was his money.  He could do with it whatever the hell he pleased.  He didn’t answer to his accountant. 

Red eyed and puffy faced, the girls finally hung up their phone call. Done taping Plum’s head up, he restacked things back into the first aid kit.

“Dad says it’s bad.” Nan’s voice cracked. “He can’t see the church steeple from our back yard anymore.  And the Landon’s house is gone.  Just—just gone.”

Lydia sniffed too and Plum held her arms out for both of them.

“Shush, now girls. What’s done is done.  Crying over something that never gave you two seconds of consideration is waste of time.  We have to focus on moving forward. On clean up. On helping.  Let me make some phone calls and start organizing.”            

                Seeing his out, Bog jerked a thumb towards the doorway. “Speaking of clean up.  I’ve got a farm to see too.”

                The mayor nodded and Bog headed out.  By the time he reached the living room, he realized the girls were following him.  

He awkwardly stopped, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Um, do either of you want to lie down?”

                “No.”

                He nodded. “Okay, then.” Starting for the door, they moved again and he paused. “You, uh…hungry? There’s food in the fridge.  And the generator’s running so you can watch tv.” Then he remembered the satellite dish he saw torn apart in a tree and he amended, “Well, you could stick a movie in.”

                They both shook their heads no.

                “Right.” He waited a beat.  Then turned for the door and they followed so he stopped.  “Listen, I’m just going to go pick up branches and move trees. It’s going to be hard, dirty work.  You two should probably just stay inside.”

                Lydia wrapped her arms over herself, looking quite pathetic with the telltale sign of tears on her face still. “Aunt Plum doesn’t like us around when she’s on the phone doing mayor stuff.  And we don’t want to be alone. We’re scared.  Please, Mr. King.”

                “We’ll help you,” Nan added.

                He glanced at the baby on her shoulder with a pointed look and she shrugged. “Peter? He won’t be a bother.  He could sleep through a tornado.”

                “Ha-ha. Oh, my God, could we stop with the tornado jokes?” Lydia demanded.

                Nan shrugged again. “I’m just saying, I’m used to doing things one handed. And Lydia’s right. I don’t want to be alone either.”

                These girls were so traumatized by the storm that they were using him as a security blanket.  Bog didn’t know how it was possible to be so amused and irritated at the same time. In Vegas, everyone knew him.  People he had never met and never would meet knew of him.  He didn’t have to worry about misunderstandings like this. He’d been ruthless in developing his reputation.  It kept women away from him.  Kept him safe. 

                But it was hard to look at a pair of bunnies like this and imagine the vipers of Vegas he was used to. Nan and Lydia were just a couple of scared kids.  He didn’t know a God damn thing about comforting them, but he could put them to work and keep their minds off things long enough they might stop the crying.

                “Fine. But you,” he pointed his thumb at Lydia. “Need real shoes. No sandals allowed on the farm.  Go in the room at the end of the hall, find a pair of socks and get in the hall closet and put on a pair of Marianne’s boots.”

                He looked at the baby again.  “You can’t just carry him around, you’ll run his head into something.”

                “I assure you, I wouldn’t.” Nan said with a huff of laughter.  “Mothers have been carrying their babies for eons and we’ve managed not to run their heads into things.”

                Bog simply walked away, digging out a laundry basket from the small laundry room that connected the garage to the house. She wasn’t worried about the baby, but he sure as fuck was. It was tiny.  Probably still had that weird soft head thing. With his luck, she’d clock the kid on a branch and Bog would be strung by his toes for letting her carry the thing around with her. 

He also plucked up a couple of Marianne’s extra work gloves from the top of the dryer where they always ended up at the end of the day, then stuff a soft blanket down into the basket. 

                Armed, he led the girls out into the yard.  Nan tucked baby Peter in his basket under the overhang of the porch while Bog hung Marianne’s wind chimes back up.  They tinkled peacefully, blending into the afternoon’s warmth.     

                Everything took a little longer than it should have with the young women tagging along.  But they laughed so much at the baby goats that Bog had let them linger as they moved them back to the barn.  And the girls had cupped the baby chicks to their chins, delighting in their softness, so he hadn’t rushed them to move along from returning them to the living room. 

                And while Bog got the chainsaw running—by watching youtube videos till he understood what the hell he was doing—Nan and Lydia took turns pushing each other in the wheelbarrow, racing past the open garage and laughing.

                The door that led from the house into the garage opened and Plum came out.  She’d stuck one of Marianne’s bandanas around her head, covering her bandage and most of her pale hair.  Wasting no time, she leaned out into the yard, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled so shrilly the hair on the back of his neck stood.

                Seconds later, gravel crunched as Nan ran the wheelbarrow into the garage, the lip between the driveway and the cement floor caught the wheel and she nearly dumped her sister onto the floor.  Panting, Nan pushed her hair out of her face. “What is it?”

“I just got off the phone with Marianne. She’s leading nothing less than a small army back here, including your parents and your husband.”

The mention of Marianne’s name, knowing she was safe, released a small coil of tension in Bog.

“With her blessing,” Plum continued. “Nan and I need to start preparing food. We’re having ourselves a little post tornado organizing party.”

“What about me?” Lydia asked.   

 “You could burn water.” Nan tugged on her sister’s hair.  “You help Mr. King.”

“Is it bad though? The town?” Lydia climbed out of the wheelbarrow, worry back in her face.

“Yes. It is.” Plum didn’t mince around truth for Lydia, and Bog liked her better for it. “There’s been a lot of loss and it’s going to take a lot of money and a lot of help from everyone to get things back to what they were. So tonight, we’ll have a little party. We’ll make some plans, some lists, some phone calls and tomorrow, we’ll start conquering things.”

Although Nan stood a little taller, Lydia’s shoulders still drooped.  Plum lifted the girl’s chin with two fingertips. “Help Mr. King. Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

She nodded, arms tucked around herself as Plum and Nan went to fetch baby Peter.

Lydia’s melancholy lingered, the happy, laughing kid gone.  Bog picked up the wheelbarrow and knocked it into the back of her knees. She plopped backwards with a surprise sound and he steered it out into the yard, granted at a much more sedate pace than her sister.

She shaded her eyes from the sun with a hand, and kicked her legs over the metal rim. “Were you scared? When it hit the farm?”

“I was underground. But our livestock was down in the pasture and vulnerable.  So I was worried and a little afraid for them.”

“I was terrified. I was so scared that something was going to happen to Nonnie or the baby and I couldn’t protect them…I was helpless.” She sighed, a sound too heavy for someone so young. So he jostled her a bit and she had to grip the sides to hang on. He parked next to the pickup. Lydia pulled her legs up under her and sat picking at the peeling green paint.  “I’m worried that feeling’s going to be here tomorrow.  And the day after that. And the next time it thunders, I’m going to freak out and panic and the terror’s going to consume me.  I don’t want to be stuck with this forever but I already feel like it’s going to crush me.”

Bog pulled on a pile of debris, separating it from the truck.  He didn’t know how to answer her, and it wasn’t in him to outright lie to the kid.  Sometimes, you were stuck with the feelings forever.  And they did crush you.  And your entire life is spent trying to prevent the bad thing from happening all over again.  Lucky for him, he had more control over his heart than Lydia ever would the weather.

She was getting chips of green all over her jeans and under her fingernails. Just a year younger than he was when his tornado had hit, she had a whole life ahead of her to let one rough patch color everything that would come after it. 

He squatted down next to the wheelbarrow, where he’d be more or less in her field of vision. “I know it’s not easy, but you need to try and let the fear go.  Not every storm will bring destruction with it. Once you understand that, you might actually begin to enjoy the roll of thunder. And until then, go easy on yourself.  Let yourself be afraid, but find a healthy way to handle it, okay?”

She sniffed, her voice small. “Like what?”

“Well. Clean today.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, we’re apparently staging a war against destruction in Poplar.  Find someone who needs your help and help them. Just keep going forward until you leave today behind.”

Simple words.  They didn’t help him. But Lydia nodded, clambering out into the grass.  She tugged her gloves on and he turned back to pulling the limbs back and dragging them away from the truck. 

He stopped when he spotted a small black and white body near the tire.  Squatting, he nearly spilled backwards when he recognized what it was, but he just as quickly realized that the skunk was obviously dead.

“Oh, no.” Lydia murmured from over his shoulder.  “It must have been trying to hide under there.”

“Yeah.” He reached down and gently scooped it up. He had no clue what to do with the body, but he’d settle it some place until Marianne was back.  He frowned.  He hated that he had nothing to welcome her back with but death.

“Mr. King, look!”

An unbelievably tiny creature stirred in the grass, missing the pressure of its mother’s body. Gently setting the adult skunk’s body on top of some pine fronds, he pulled his gloves off and carefully slipped his hands around the baby.  

It was cold to the touch.

His heart sank.

“Is it hurt?” Lydia asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What should we do with it?”

He shook his head again, bringing it up to look at.  Its eyes weren’t even open yet. Poor thing never even had a fighting chance.  “It’s so young. I’m afraid there may not be anything we can do.” He tucked it under his chin, trying to put some warmth back into its little body. 

“Marianne will be home soon.  She’ll know how to fix it. Everyone knows she’s good with animals.”

Bog nodded. The thought of Marianne still made him feel like he was drowning.  And this time, he didn’t know if she was going to be what killed him or saved him.


	9. Touchy Feely

By the time Marianne and Joseph crested the hill to her home, it was late afternoon.  Being the only one on muleback—the others making the journey on four wheelers—she’d sent everyone on ahead of her and was the last to arrive.  But it was such a lovely greeting to see her home brimming with people. Lydia and Cindy Nash, the kindergarten teacher as well as her pharmacist husband Rick were stringing Marianne’s white Christmas lights from the house’s porch, through various tree branches, back and forth, creating a sort of web over the yard.  Marianne smiled and waved even as she turned Joseph towards the barn.  The lights were such a needless thing, especially considering how much work there was to be done in and around Poplar.  But tonight, everyone needed a little community. And there was nothing her community loved more than a party. 

She rubbed her hand down Joseph’s withers as both his pace and ears picked up.  He was happy to be home and Marianne was so proud of the work he’d put in today.  Odd colored blue, yellow and faded white boards covering the once gaping hole in the side of the barn caught her attention.  It gave the old structure a patchwork look, as if hewn from a vintage blanket and she decided instantly that she liked it. Their crooked angles and rough edges made her think of Bog’s seldom seen, but very crooked smile.  And the way he often hid his eyes when he looked at her. 

She sighed, dismounting at the door to the barn before leading Joseph in.  She traded his bridle for a soft halter and tethered him in the middle of the aisle. Once his saddle and pad were off, she began grooming him.  Her shoulder ached, even more than it usually did, but she was careful to give the mule a thorough brushing.  He closed his eyes, relaxing his weight on his hindquarters, one front hoof propped up on its tip as she moved around his body. 

The quiet of the ride back had given Marianne the time she needed to call her father.  To both let him know that she and Dawn were safe, and to do what essentially amounted to an Inquisition style grilling on his role in Bog’s past. She’d told herself over and over since first finding out about what the Elite had done, that she wouldn’t bring it up to her father.  They weren’t exactly on the best terms as it was, but that was a whole different mess in which Marianne wasn’t the daughter he wanted her to be and he wasn’t the dad she needed him to be.  So going to him about Bog had seemed useless. 

                Except. Bog had stayed.

                He’d stayed, force fed her a sandwich and had offered her as much compassion and comfort as he seemed physically capable of which was so little her heart throbbed sadly.  He was an asshole, but at his core? Behind the walls and barbed wire? He was kind. And sensitive. And so genuinely lost that even the thought of it made her ache to hold him.

                It killed her to get glimpses of the real man hidden in there because she knew what he knew—that man wouldn’t survive the circles he moved in back in Vegas.  She’d lived in them too once.  But she’d been young and sexy, the heiress of an empire.  People had more to gain by winning her favor than taking her down. She’d been pampered and celebrated, a princess to a sea of neon and beautiful people. But Bog? He was the king on a chessboard. To win the game, you had to capture the king.  That put a mark on his back. Made him vulnerable to attack.

Which was exactly what the Elite had done.  They’d attacked a nineteen year old boy. Her father had called it a ‘sink or swim tactic’.  They’d been doing Bog a favor, pushing him to either turn into a man or bow out of the Castle Casino for the good of the entire strip.  If the Castle went down, it would affect every other casino there. She choked on bitter anguish, remembering her father’s words. How they’d slowly set the boy on fire, figuring he’d either rise to the task or turn tail and run before he could drive his father’s casino into the ground. 

Shaking now like she had been then, she wrapped her arms around Joseph’s neck. Douglas claimed he hadn’t known about the woman Stan hired until it was said and done.  But Stan hadn’t meant to hurt the kid. She’d found herself screaming in the quiet of a meadow from on the top of a mule _what the fuck did he fucking expect hiring a woman to strip him of his virginity and use his love to humiliate him to do? Grow fucking ball hair? Is that what it was about? About making a man out of a boy? Instead of helping him, you ground in him to the pavement and kicked him?_

Her breath hitched unevenly and she forced herself to count out measured strokes of her hands over Joseph’s back until the urge to vomit left her.   Her fingers touched a knot in his withers and she slowly became more conscious of it, of the heat pushing out from it.  Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she fetched the liniment she kept in a metal box along with his favorite treats and some hair bows Dawn had bought for him.  If possible, the liniment smelled worse than her own shoulder cream, but she worked it into the knot, trying to release the tension for him.  Joseph grunted with mule-satisfaction, leaning into the press and kneed of her fingers, even as her own shoulder cried a little for its own much needed relief.

Joseph moved suddenly, snapping out of his dreamy stupor to push against the tether lines.  Marianne whipped her head around, surprised—and yet, completely unsurprised—to see Bog standing in the barn’s north entrance.  She’d been thinking about him all day and still the sight of him unsettled her.

Did he even realize he was still in his suit pants and button down shirt?  Once white, it was now dirty, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, highlighting the long line of muscle in his forearms.  His pants bore the same amount of abuse and filth as his shirt and the fine leather of his shoes was scratched and ruined. 

He looked irritated, and Marianne couldn’t see any deeper into it.

“Did you eat today? You’re fucking weaving on your feet, Marianne.”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll finish up Joseph—”

“I’ll finish Joseph. You go put food in your body before you black out and freak one of the kids out. They’ve been through enough as it is today.” He moved into her space forcing her to step back as he settled his hands on Joseph’s back. 

Instead of reacting to the bite of his temper, she simply said, “I don’t need this from you right now, Bog.  Okay? I’m tired. And hurting.”

He glanced at her shoulder, then back Joseph’s shoulder where he haphazardly rubbed and not even in the right spot.  “I want to help you,” he mumbled softly.

She lifted her hand, covering the tight knot on the mule that she’d been working on. “Here. Feel this?”

Bog moved his fingers into her space as she slowly drew hers away.  He pressed with his fingertips experimentally.

“That lump?” He asked.  
                “It’s his muscle, it’s tight and bound up.  We’re trying to relax it and massage the pain away.”

Bog pushed hard into the knot and Joseph sidestepped with a protesting tug of his head against the lines on his halter. 

“No, no,” Marianne said gently to both of them when Bog immediately dropped his hand.  Ignoring the intense tension in his limbs, she caught his wrist, dragging his hand back up to the spot.  Her fingers covering his, she showed him how to work the mule back to comfort.

“It’s super sore right now, so firm is good, but you can’t push too hard directly on the knot.  Feel.  Start at the center, push a little and make circles, slowly rubbing out towards the more relaxed part of the muscle with increasing pressure.  This draws the pain out.” Their fingers glided over Joseph’s fur, and Bog gave soft laugh when the mule grunted his satisfaction, leaning into the press of their hands, head now bouncing with pleasure. 

“See? You don’t get rid of it by hammering the pain, you have to slowly circle it, drawing it out little bits at a time until it all sinks away.”  Withdrawing her hand from Bog’s was difficult, but he’d let her touch him without protest. She didn’t want to abuse those little moments he gave her by forcing them to last any longer than necessary just for her own sake.             

He worked quietly, covering so much more ground on the mule’s body than she could with both her hands at once. She slowly became aware of his gaze on her but when she looked up, he turned his head, eyes hooded.

“Are you okay? After today?” He spoke quietly, a mere fraction louder than the sound of his fingers moving through horse hair.

She leaned into Joseph’s barrel shaped side, inhaling the scent of animal and the slight scent of cut wood she could detect coming from Bog.  “I’m okay. I’ll be better once we actually get into town tomorrow and start cleaning and doing something.  I wanted to just dive in today, but Plum’s right.  We need to ‘organize, prioritize, calculate and delegate’.”

“You look exhausted.” His focus narrowed on what he was doing so much so that Marianne could feel the way he was fighting looking at her. “What can I do for you? What do you need?”

                “Physically? I need a shower and yes, some food. I’m famished. But emotionally?” Her breath hitched in her throat. “I could use a hug.”

                He jerked as if something had stung him, red burning the tips of his ears.

                She held her palms up before he could say anything. “It’s okay, there’s like forty people up at the house who’ll hug me.”

                Embarrassment and shame washed over his face, but anger quickly replaced them.  Marianne’s heart stuttered hard.

“That’s not fair,” he accused in a painfully scratch voice.  “I just…I would...but...I can’t.”

                “No, I didn’t—” She sighed hard. “I wasn’t being bitchy, Bog. I just meant, that it’s okay if you can’t? Like, if you did hug me, it would be nice.  But it’s completely okay if you can’t and that I’m okay with it.”

                He swallowed hard.

                “You’ve done so much for me, and you’ve already taken such good care of me today. It makes me want to hug you.” She watched as pink crept up the back of his neck.

                “You’re very touchy feely.”

                “No,” she laughed. “I’m really not.  But sometimes hugs say things that aren’t always easy to put in words.”

“And what would your hug tell me?”

“Well, you’d have to hug me and find that out yourself.”

He flushed, looking both stricken and completely undone.

She slid her hands over Joseph’s withers, not letting the way Bog yanked his hands away hurt her.  The knot was gone.  She reapplied more liniment and led him into his stall.  “There, you rest.  I’ll come check on you later.”

Judging by the heavy set of his eyelids, he was going to be passed out before she even left the barn.  Bog stepped in, giving Joseph a quick hug.  But he held himself so stiffly, his hand cupped to his belly, that a low ping of panic hit her sternum.

“Are you hurt?” She asked when he came out and locked the stall shut.

                “No.”

                “What’s wrong? I can tell something’s wrong, Bog.”

                “Nothing that can’t wait until you’ve showered and eaten.” He looked at her and whatever he saw made him soften just the slightest.  “I promise. It’ll wait until you’ve had your shower and had some food.”

                “And had a beer?” She asked hopefully.

                He nodded, some of the humor coming back to his craggy, tired features. “I’ll even let you take it into the shower with you.”

                A deep, uncontrolled groan fell from her mouth. It startled him, his gaze immediately going to her mouth.

                “I didn’t realize how good a shower beer sounded till you said it. And now it’s all I can think about.”

                He nodded, the thin skin behind his ears darkening.

                They walked out in together, up towards the house and past the decimated garden. Marianne tried to not let it get to her, but she’d raised those plants from seeds and it was one thing to let them go in the fall when their time was over, but this was like losing friends at the peak of their lives. 

                The lights were up, now plugged in and glowing faintly in the ever dwindling daylight.  Cindy and Rick were building a tent on the edge of a yard.  Rick stopped when he saw Marianne and as he jogged over, Bog moved, putting himself between them.   

                “Hey, Marianne? We brought that tent thinking we were going to make more room for everyone in your house, but we completely forgot to grab sleeping bags or blankets.”

                “Marianne’s going to take a shower,” Bog said. “But if you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll get you what you need.”

                He said it very nicely, very politely, but Rick took one solid step back.

                “Right. Well, you enjoy the shower, Marianne.”

                Climbing the stairs up her porch, she elbowed him. “I can speak for myself.”

                “You’ll get him blankets and pillows. And then someone else will need something. And then someone else and so on and so forth and you’ll never get a shower, let alone food. I’ll take care of him while you take care of you.”  He pulled the door open, holding it for her. 

                Dawn pushed out before Marianne could get one step inside.

                “There you are!  Marianne, if you don’t do something about that over the hill, tight nylon wearing tart, I swear, I won’t let the threat of time in county keep me from pulling every last strand of hair out of her head.”

                Before Marianne could say anything, Bog’s posture changed, he moved like a snake gliding down from a tree branch to mesmerize a helpless little bird. 

                “Dawn, have you ever thought about Vegas?”

                Marianne shook her head. His voice could light a match with the deep, abrasive rasp of it.  If he ever turned that way on her? She wouldn’t be able to stay upright. 

                “Vegas?” Puzzlement swept over her sisters face.

                “Headlining? At my casino?”

                “Oh.” Dawn fluttered.

                Bog held his arm out for Dawn, drawing her out of the doorway to make room for Marianne to pass.   

                “Shower,” he hissed.

                The sound jerked Dawn from her reverie.  “You’re trying to distract me.”

                “Marianne,” Bog paused, wincing as Dawn tapped his nose with a finger.  Hard. “Shower. Go, damn it.”

                She laughed, lingering because Dawn was the only one who could touch him. And Marianne had started to wonder if it wasn’t because Bog knew as much as the world did that Dawn was a one man gal, and it made her a neutral territory. Made her safe for him. 

                “What’s wrong, Dawn?” She asked.

                “Plum said Sunny and I couldn’t sing tonight.  That this is business only and if I wanted to wail, I should go sit my ass on a fence like any other ill-bred alley cat.”

                Marianne instantly regretted not taking that shower. She’d never met two women more eager to one up each other than Dawn and the mayor. It took real effort to keep them apart.  Sometimes it was unavoidable and boy, could the fur fly.

                “Dawn, we do have so much to do, so much to organize.  There just isn’t time.”

                “People lost homes today.  Everyone’s lives are upside down and they need music, Marianne. They need me.”

                She was still trying to formulate a diplomatic reply when Bog said, “I think it’s distasteful to discuss business over a meal.  Food is to be enjoyed. Savored. And what better way than to a little music? Why don’t you and Sunny play while everyone eats, Dawn? You ease our minds and relax us all so when it’s time for business, we’re ready and refreshed.”

                Dawn’s eyes narrowed.  “It’s like you’re stroking my ego with both hands.”

                “That’s because I am.”

                “Good. Don’t stop.  I get an hour for the dinner set.”

                Bog nodded.  “Done.” He jerked his thumb inside.  “Marianne, shower.”

                She kicked her boots off inside the door, wincing as her feet moved on the very flat floor.  “Nicely handled, King.”

                “I’ve met a prima donna or two in my day. None I’ve liked half so well as Dawn but she’s hard not to like.” He trailed off as if realizing what he said.

                That he seemed to embrace the flaws in her sister, could work her over as easy as a pancake on a hot griddle and genuinely liked her pleased Marianne.

                She walked into the kitchen and Bog grunted, arm and one long finger extended towards the bathroom. “I said shower.”

                “But you promised me a beer to go with that shower.”

                He grumbled but followed, looking ready to body slam the next distraction that presented itself.

                “Food smells amazing, Mayor.”

                “Can’t take all the credit.” Plum stirred the potatoes on the stove. “Nan helped with everything.  She’s becoming quite an accomplished cook.”

                Nan flushed, turning around.  Marianne honed in on the baby she wore strapped to her chest and she sighed.

                “Oh, look. Look how big he’s gotten.”

                “Marianne…”

                She had the feeling Bog was about to growl for her to shower, but he stopped when she dipped her head down to kiss the top of the baby’s head.

                “You want to hold him?” Nan asked.

                “Yes!”

                Nan started to lift him and Marianne waved her hands. “No, wait. Shower. I’m so dirty, Nan. Raincheck until I’ve cleaned up?”            

                “And maybe until she’s eaten.” Bog added in a firm tone.

                “Or, I could hold him while I eat.”

                “You might spill on him.”

                Nan laughed. “Mr. King seems to think babies are made of dough and will dent at the slightest pressure.”

                Bog flushed when Plum laughed, but Nan’s husband Gregory spoke up from the island. “Well, he’s not wrong. When they’re first born, they’re just boneless little human nuggets.”

                Nan’s nose wrinkled.  “If you could’ve felt the way this thing kicked my ribs all night for months straight, you wouldn’t doubt there’s bones in there and that he’s a tough little thing.”

                Bog’s head tilted as he considered the baby. “He kicked your ribs? They can do that when they’re inside their mothers?”

                “God, yes. Hard enough I couldn’t see straight sometimes.”

                “Huh.” It was the smallest sound, one that said he’d just learned something entirely new about babies and mothers.  Warmth curled in Marianne’s middle at the slight reflection of wonderment in his eyes.

                “Hey! Marianne! I’ve been looking for you.”

                Lydia ran into the kitchen and Bog didn’t stiffen with her like he had with every other distraction.  In fact, Marianne would say he softened even more.

                “Mr. King, did you show her?”

 “Show me what?”

Bog winced, shaking his head at Lydia but she didn’t seem to notice.

                “He found a baby skunk.”

                “What? Bog, where is it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

                “Because you’re tired and exhausted and starving. Marianne, the baby will wait, you need to see to yourself for ten minutes.”

                She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry but no. I want to enjoy my shower and I won’t until you’ve let me look at it. That’s just the way I’m built, King. Deal with it, move on, show me the baby.”

                He growled.  Deeply.  Nan, Lydia and Plum all raised their eyebrows to their hairlines.

                Bog started tugging at his shirt, untucking it and heat pooled through Marianne, making her blood surge through her veins.  He cupped one hand at the button of his jeans and a small black and white body slid into his hand.

                “Google said to keep it warm, that it has to have a high enough body temperature before you feed it. I couldn’t find the heating pad, so I thought if I kept it against me would help. That it might stay warm. I just…I don’t have anything to feed it.”

                Marianne brought his hand up, settling hers over the little body so that it rested between both their palms. Its eyes weren’t even open. 

                “Where’s your momma, little one?”

                “She’s dead, I’m sorry, there wasn’t anything we could do.”

                “Pity,” she murmured, touching the soft white stripe on its back. “I’d say she’s two to three weeks old.  Eyes are still closed, but look—” she stroked an ear.  “They’re loosening up, starting to open.

                “Can we save her?” His worry was palpable and so wonderfully human.  His blue eyes met hers, completely unguarded for once.

                It was one thing to crush a little on a man who hugged her mule, but it was something entirely different to fall head over heels for a man carrying a baby skunk around in his shirt. “We’ll at least keep her going until we can get her to Dr. Pare’s sister. She’s a wildlife rehabilitator and is the best choice for a baby who’ll need returned to the wild eventually. I’ve got some pedialyte, we’ll keep her hydrated tonight.  Tomorrow, we’ll get her to Hannah’s place.”

                Bog nodded. “Will you shower first? Please? She’s waited this long, surely another twenty minutes can’t hurt her.”

                Marianne nodded.  “Yeah. You keep her warm.  When I’m done, I’ll gather up what you’ll need.”

 

                By the time Marianne dried off, reapplied her shoulder cream and dressed, the kitchen was empty.  She pulled the tub of animal medical supplies out of the hall closet and filled a small canvas bag so Bog could keep everything together. 

                He was out in the yard with the others.  The sun’s last light pushed over the western most trees, turning Dawn’s hair bright white as she and Sunny sang.  Food peppered the small table on her porch and the others all sat eating on the straw bales circling a small fire.  With the lights overhead and the soft, sweet twang of Dawn’s voice, it could’ve been the start to a wonderful party, rather than a post-tornado council.

                She filled a plate of food, smiling gratefully when Lydia got up from the bale she shared with Bog, then sat on the ground, watching them raptly.

“Are you going to feed her now?” She asked softly in deference to the musical duo.

                “Not feed, no.  Bog’s going to keep her hydrated. Right now, that’s more important than food.”

                Marianne had Lydia hold her plate while she pulled a towel from the bag and spread it over Bog’s lap.  He removed the skunk again from his shirt and settled it down gently.  She showed him how to fill the syringe then how to prop the skunk up to make sure she didn’t aspirate as she drank.

                “Now, she’s used to a nipple, so go slow. She may not understand at first and we don’t want her to suck a bunch of this down the wrong pipe.”

                He nodded, his concentration fierce and solely on the task at hand.  She took her plate back from Lydia just to keep her hands out of Bog’s way.  He didn’t need her hovering, he needed to work this out between him and the skunk. He stroked the baby’s head with his thumb and gave soft praise when she began to show interest in the syringe he kept gently dabbing at her mouth.  Her pink tongue came out, licking the tip of it and Bog pushed on the syringe, maybe a little too hard as Pedialyte rushed out, making a puddle on the towel.  He cursed, dabbing the baby’s face clean with the edge of the towel before bringing the syringe back.  He murmured softly and under the sound of Dawn’s singing, Marianne couldn’t make out words, just the soft, encouraging tone of it.

                As green as he’d been when he first came her, he’d certainly proven himself a natural with the animals.  Maybe, she thought, it was because he didn’t hold himself back from them like he did humans.  And the fact that the animals were drawn to him convinced Marianne once and for all that there was a good man inside of him.  Animals could see through the veils and masks people so often wore. They knew good when they saw it. 

                By the time Marianne finished the plate of food she barely tasted for all the attention she paid to it, Bog and the skunk had finished.  He petted it softly now, smiling down proudly. 

                She set her plate aside and fished the damp rag from the bag, handing it to him.

                “Now the fun part.”

                “A bath?”

                “No.” She grinned. “Now you stimulate her.”

                “Excuse me?” Bog protectively covered the skunk with a hand.

                Marianne laughed, aware the Dawn was no longer singing and people were starting to watch them. “Her mother would lick her bottom to stimulate her to urinate and have a bowel movement.  We have to mimic that so she can go potty.”

                “Uh…hmm.” Bog looked at the rag, then at the skunk, then at the rag again.  “You could do that?”

                “Uh-uh.  Nope.  Doesn’t work that way, King. You feed it? You poop it.”

                He grimaced but he took the rag and just held it.  “I can’t begin to tell you how little I know about doing this sort of thing.”

                “You handled the business in the front end of the skunk, time to handle the party in the back end.”

                He met her gaze, eyebrows cocked. “You’re enjoying this a little too much, Summerfield.”

                “I only wish I had a camera.”

                He snorted, gently scooping the baby up in his hand.  “So what? I rub her?”

                “Gently. Think mother skunk’s tongue.”

                Bog applied the wash cloth to the baby’s backside, swiping it gently but firmly.  Nothing happened and he continued but glanced at her. “How long does this take?”

                “I don’t know.  It shouldn’t take much longer.”

                A quiet fell over the crowd and some of the others stood and came to watch. Marianne was aware of them, but Bog’s concentration was on the baby.  He rubbed and rubbed and the baby squirmed and fussed but nothing happened.

                “What happens if she doesn’t go?” Lydia asked, big eyes filling with worry.

                Nervousness touched the back of Marianne’s neck.  “She’s got to go. She has to, or she won’t make it.”

                “Come on, Baby.” Bog urged softly.  “Poop.”

                “You can do it, sweetheart.” Marianne crooned, not sure if she was cheering on Bog or the skunk.  But she wanted both to succeed here.  For both their sakes.  “Poop, Baby, poop.”

                “Poop, Baby, poop!” Lydia chanted, coming to her knees to watch. 

                The other’s moved closer, Dawn and Plum stood shoulder to shoulder, so engrossed in Bog and the skunk that they didn’t even notice. 

                Nan joined in the chant with her sister, bouncing baby Peter along to it. “Poop, Baby, poop.”

                Shortly, they were all saying it. 

Bog’s eyes held a depth of sadness, as if he’d already lost, but his hands remained steady.  Marianne touched the small of his back ever so softly. 

Suddenly, with a soft squeak, the baby let loose.  Cheers filled the air, laughter flitting over Marianne and Bog’s heads. Nan kissed her husband, Plum and Dawn smiled at each other before catching themselves and parting like Moses parted the waters.  Lydia clapped her hands, praising the little skunk. Even Bog smiled a little, the shape of his mouth so utterly sweet.  She hadn’t known he could look like that. Hadn’t known a man and a skunk could touch her so deeply.

 

As if a pooping baby had been just the miracle everyone needed after a day of so much loss, the mood was decidedly lighter the rest of the night.  There was both celebration and planning.  Plum made phone calls while others drew up lists and talked over priorities.  Dawn and Sunny continued to sing, Nan and Gregory occasionally dancing together while Marianne snuggled Peter. 

The party finally broke up late into the night and Marianne made her last trip down to the barn to check on her animals one more time. A light glowed from inside and she paused at the threshold.  Bog was in with the baby goats and their momma, shaking a blanket over the straw.

                “You sleeping down here?”

                He jerked and flushed instantly.  “Not me.  You.”

                “Oh?” She looped her arms over the stall, watching as he settled the old quilt down and arranged pillows, a sheet and a top blanket over it.   

                “I gave your bed to Plum.  Dawn and Sunny are on air mattresses in the second bedroom upstairs, Nan and Peter are in my room, and Lydia and her parents are in the living room on the pull out couch.  So, I’m putting you here.” His face was stern, but pink hedged over his cheekbones.  “I was supposed to be gone before your final check on the animals.”

                He was taking care of her again. 

                “Bog, I know you can’t show softness often—that in Vegas, you couldn’t appear weak without becoming someone else’s dinner….” His cheeks hollowed at her words and she very nearly lost her nerve.  “But I…I notice all the little things you do. And I appreciate them. I appreciate you.”

                He tugged the stall door open, shoulders awkwardly hunched.

                “I just didn’t have anywhere else to put you.”

                “Okay.”

                “It was here or the bed of your truck and I figured you’d rather sleep curled up with your goats. Besides, it’s supposed to drizzle on and off tonight.”

                “Okay.” She moved until she was in his line of sight and his babbling died off.  “This looks very comfortable.” To prove her point, she sat down and pulled her boots off.  One of the babies stood from where it had been lying next to its mother and wandered over to push its head into her chest demanding attention.  “I’ll be very happy here.”

                He lingered.

                Marianne waited.

                “You know how you said that you wouldn’t enjoy your shower until you saw Baby?”

                She smiled, wondering if he even realized he’d named the skunk.

                He continued, voice gravelly.  “Something’s been bothering me lately. And I think about it when I’m supposed to be sleeping.”

                Marianne’s stomach tightened. “Okay.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

                Bog swallowed hard, face darkening even more as he braced himself and pulled an extra bottle of her muscle cream out of his pocket.  “Your shoulder bothers me.” He shifted on his feet.  “I thought, since I helped Joseph, you’d let me help you. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, and everyone’s going to need us as abled bodied as possible. It doesn’t make sense for you to be nursing that shoulder when you could be doing so much more.”

                Marianne considered her next words carefully.  By his own admission, he didn’t touch the women he had sex with.  He didn’t even kiss them.  But he wanted to put his hands on her.  And what he wanted to do was very innocent.  But judging by the fire burning under his skin and the clench of his fingers around the bottle, touching her was going to be as sweet and satisfying for him as it was going to be for her. “Okay.  But I’ll have to take my shirt off, Bog.  Will that bother you?”

                His skin paled, his eyes dilated so quickly she was surprised he didn’t teeter on his feet.  “O-okay. I—I won’t touch you. I don’t touch women. Ever I just....just…your shoulder. It hurts.” He nodded. And kept nodding as Marianne tugged her shirt over her head.


	10. Off the Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for loving this and for all the wonderful feedback. I'm enjoying this fic and sharing it with y'all so much!!

There was a moment where Bog’s eyes were on her, drifting over her skin, filling her with that long-forgotten desire to be seen.  Not once in four years had she even wanted a man to look at her clothed, much less stretched out shirtless on an old quilt, but it felt right sharing this experience with him. She felt beautiful again.

                He made a soft noise, screwing his eyes shut, turning away from her.  His tall, thin frame trembled and Marianne didn’t think it was from desire. Her heart sank and she gathered her shirt to her chest, regretting her impulsive move. 

He didn’t touch the women he had sex with, he didn’t even let them take their clothes off.  For a man who’d had plenty of sexual partners, he’d had so little intimacy. 

This was virgin territory for him.  And she’d just lobbed first base at his head.                      

                But he hadn’t run away.  He was still here. As hard as this seemed to be for him, he stayed because he wanted to help her. To make her feel better. She wanted to give him that satisfaction, because there probably wasn’t anything else he’d let her give him.

                “I really appreciate this, Bog.” She said softly, turning to lay down on her belly.  “You’re right you know, this shoulder’s been bothering me so much.  I like how you notice those things. It makes me feel good.” She angled her head back, watching him from over her shoulders.  He hadn’t moved. “I’m decent now.”

                His hands wrenched around the bottle one more time before his head fell.

                Marianne squeaked, then snorted out a laugh when one of the kids, Juliet, jumped onto the rump of her butt, her cloven feet digging in uncomfortably.  She wiggled. “Get off you little monster.”

                Just as quick, Juliet was gone, Bog setting her down off the quilt.  His hand snagged the sheet and he drew it up over her back.  “You’ll get cold.”

                “Thank you.” 

                She laid with her head on her arms, watching him behind her. He fumbled with the cream, pouring a small amount into the middle of his palm before rubbing his hands together and warming it up.

                The little gesture, just like all the other little things he did, melted her.  She wasn’t even sure if he recognized how thoughtful he was, how caring he could actually be.

                He folded one hand over her shoulder, the new calluses on his fingers rough but welcomed against her skin.  With stiff and jilted movements, he slowly traced the hard, bunched shape of the muscle stretching from her neck to the edge of her shoulder.  Just that tender contact between their skins soothed the pain.

                Marianne sighed and closed her eyes, letting herself enjoy the moment. 

                Gradually, he became more confident, his touch more deliberate and focused.  He worked her like he did Joseph, slowly pushing the tension out of the muscle.  She murmured a soft encouraging sound and his fingers dipped over to the other side of her neck, briefly rubbing there too.

                She arched into the touch, turning her head to press her forehead down on her arms, giving him access to both shoulders now.  His other hand covered her there, his body shifting next to her until he was kneeling over her. 

                This put more of his weight onto her and she just about died from the flush of pleasure it gave her.  She’d missed that flood of warmth, had forgotten how good it could feel to have a man’s hands on her body. 

                The area of his stroke spread, covering her upper arms now, his fingers dragging across her skin as if testing its softness.  He pushed one hand ever so slightly under the sheet, earning a delighted groan from her. 

                “Would you rub my back too, please?”

                Like a visceral wave pulsing in the air, his nervousness was back. But he drew the sheet off her. Then his finger stroked the band of her bra.

                “What about this?”

                “You can unclasp it if that’ll make it easier for you.” She held her breath.

                His hands returned to her shoulders, rubbing again, slowly working down her back.  He made a pass over the band, but as he pushed his palms back up he stopped and picked up the clasp, gently working it free.  He spread each side out pushing the straps down her arms until nothing would impede his touch. 

                One palm moved over her back, not massaging as much as petting.  He traced the shape of her spine and it took everything she had not to arch into him like a cat begging for more. 

                “So beautiful.” His voice was deep and so low, as if he were speaking to himself. 

                Slowly, holding her bra in place, she rolled under him.  His eyes were completely unguarded for the first time since he’d stepped out of his car and onto her farm, all that gorgeous blue was gentle and trained solely on her.  

                “Bog, you can touch me other places too if you want.”

                He swallowed, bright red pushing along his cheekbones, shy yearning filling his eyes.  Marianne took his hand and although he flinched slightly at her touch, he let her bring it up. She rubbed his fingertips over her own cheeks, then trailed his hand over her chin and down her neck, pushing him close, letting her throat fill his hand, letting him feel how much larger he was. His fingers flexed, his mouth pulling down painfully.  He shook his head, but he held her, his thumb rubbing where it lay. 

                “Marianne.” The misery in his voice made her ache.  “I—I don’t think I like sex.”

                “Okay,” she replied softly, her mind frantically trying to understand. “You mean, like you’re an asexual?”

                “No—I used to. I liked it when I first started paying for the prostitutes and I was trying to prove that she didn’t matter.”

“She? The one you fell in love with?”

He gave a jerky nod. “It was pleasurable then in the little capacity a joining like that could be.  But it always came with an immediate sense of anger.  At myself, for forcing them to service me.”

                “Bog.” She squeezed her hand over his where it still lie on her throat.

                “So I stopped for a while.  And the Elite…they pushed at me.  Sending me women with notes, telling me that if the women were driving their prices up because of my face, they’d take pity and chip in and pay instead. They started a rumor that I’d fallen in love with another prostitute, and I was pining myself away for her.  I had thought the laughter was bad, but the pity from all of Vegas was worse.  It got so bad one prostitute offered herself free to help me get over another broken heart.  After that, I had sex for the power. It was like clockwork, just another task.” His eyes shut.  “I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.” He started to withdraw his hand, but she held him tightly.  “I’ve been forcing myself for so long, I can’t even get an erection anymore.  It makes me angry.  All of it, the whole fucking mess of my life.”  Exhaling sharply, he scrubbed his face with his free hand. “That’s why I came here, you know.  I had to get out while the worst of the rumors and talk circulated.”

                Marianne was quiet, her heart silently bleeding in her chest.  Everything in her ached to take him to her bed and just hold him in her arms until all the hurt and pain left his body. Slowly, she lifted her hand to his throat, cupping him gently, mirroring his hand on her. “I’m glad you told me.  I don’t want to do anything that makes you feel bad.”

                “You’re so lovely.” His eyes traced the slope of her shoulders. “But I wouldn’t know the first thing about pleasuring you. Even if I could—perform.”

                “Do you know why I came on to you that day at the shallows?”

                He shook his head.

                “Because you made me think about sex and I haven’t at all since my ex left four years ago. I don’t even touch myself anymore.”

Soft heat flooded his eyes and his fingers flexed on the slope of her throat. “Why?”

“I didn’t want that closeness…I couldn’t trust anyone with my body or my heart again. But being here? With you? It’s better than sex. You made me feel so good.”

“Oh.” His tentative response was more of a puff of air and he stared at her with a mixture of wonder and despair.

“Did you like touching me?”

                He nodded.

                “And it made you feel good?”

                He nodded again. 

                She smiled softly, “Then that’s all that matters.”

                He lifted his hand and she let him, but he only traced the corner of her mouth with his thumb, his fingers stretched down into the hair at her temples.

                “Considering our histories,” she said. “Why don’t we make this easy on ourselves and just take sex between us off the table.”

                “Off the table?”

                “I don’t want our end goal to be sex. I don’t want the reason we’re near each other to be because sex is going to happen.  Our time together should be about pleasure, in whatever shape it might come. So we take sex off the table until there comes a time---if there comes a time—that we want to re-evaluate things.”

                “But we would still make each other feel good?” He asked, voice a mixture of husk and baritone. “Like a back rub?”

                She nodded.  “And taking care of each other.  You fuss over me.”

                A high blush hit his face and God, she wanted to rub her nose against his.  “I like it, Bog.  It makes me feel really good.  I just maybe need a little more guidance from you on what makes you feel good.  And what things don’t.”

                “Lots of things don’t.” The pain of that statement reflected in the sudden tension of his shoulders.

                “Like…”

                “Kissing.”

                “Okay, you don’t like kissing.”

                He shrugged. “’I’ve never actually kissed…” His voice trailed off in embarrassment, but she remained silent until he continued. “But I don’t think I want to. I don’t like the idea of anyone that close to me.”

                “I understand.”

                Skepticism arched his brows. 

                “It’s intimate, Bog. A good kiss? It takes trust.” His eyes fell to her mouth. “Affection. And a deep connection between two people. What else don’t you like?”

                He shook his head, pulling away from her completely.  He readjusted the small shape of Baby still inside his shirt before running his hands through his hair.  Marianne bit her lip, certain there was nothing sexier than a man in a dirty suit with a skunk hidden in his shirt.  She carefully sat up, still holding her unstrapped bra to her chest.  More for his comfort than her own, she discreetly slipped back into her shirt, but discarded the bra. 

                “This would never work between us.” He muttered.

                “Why not?”

                “Hugging. It’s not fair to you if I can’t do any of the things that bring you pleasure.”

                “Let me decide what is or isn’t fair for me, Bog. You know how rubbing my shoulder made you feel better? Well, connecting with you in whatever manner makes you feel good, is what makes me feel better.”

                He considered her words, arms folded over his knees.  “Maybe, in time I could hug you.”

                “When you’re ready.”

                “You’d like it?”

                “Very, very much.”

                He digested this, his brows drawn together.   

                “Maybe,” she suggested gently. “We could talk about the things you would like?”

                He shrugged and shook his head.

                “Well, if you could do anything right now, or ask me to do anything, what would it be?” When he didn’t respond, her stomach sank. “Bog. Please. I need this.” Raw honesty made her voice thick.  “I need everything you make me feel, I’m like a desert inside. And you fill the cracks in my skin.”

                “You’re too beautiful to be begging from someone like me.”

                “And yet you’re the only man I’d ever beg for.”

                Emotion weakened the brittle shape of his body, but he still fought to resist her. To resist them.  Finally, he closed his eyes, mouth tight and thin. “I want to sleep here with you. Clothed.”

                She laughed to hide the tears of relief stuck in her throat. “You’ll probably end up with a goat on your ass same way I did.”

                “It wouldn’t be Primrose Farm without some animal on my body.” His fingers idly stroked over the skunk’s outline. 

                She wanted this so badly.  Now that she understood him better, the fact that he was giving her so much of him touched her deeply.  Tears threatened again, burning hot, but God, they were happy tears. 

                To hide them she laid back down on her side, facing his half of the quilt. “Can we share the same blanket?”

                “Only because I’m too damn tired to walk back up to the house again.” He left the stall to flick the light switch and he came back to her in soft darkness. She heard him pull his shoes off, then the rasp of his belt as he removed it.

                “I’m sticking Baby under my chin tonight, I think I’ll pay more mind to rolling over if she’s there.” His dark form eased down, taking some of the blanket up and over his body.  He lay on his side facing her. 

                One of the kids half jumped, half lunged on Marianne’s back.  She pulled it down, nestling its body between hers and Bogs. A few minutes later, the other twin came and got the same treatment, being nestled a little further down.  

                The barn was silent. 

Bog grunted, shifting slightly. 

                “What’s wrong?”

                “Cat’s on my hip.”

                “Joseph’s going to be so jealous tomorrow, all these other animals laying on you.  Ten buck says he’s going to try and sit in your lap.”

                Bog chuckled sleepily.  “Twelve hundred pound lap dog.”

                She petted the goat nearest to her, stroking her hand down the little creature’s back, but her fingers bumped into his.  She drew away but he caught her, easily closing his around hers nearly entirely.   He pulled it up towards his face and just held it there between them.  Then, like the softest drop of rain, he pressed his lips into her palm.

                Tenderness slipped through her body. She turned his hand, bringing it to her mouth, kissing his warm, sensitive skin. Someday, she was going to make love to his hands.  They were the hands of a gentle soul.  But for now, one sweet kiss would hold her until his soul had come to heal a little more.  

                “Good night, Bog.”

                Their hands laid joined over the back of a baby goat. 

                “Goodnight, Marianne.”


	11. Two-Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one!! I'm SO glad everyone's enjoying the story, because I'm really enjoying creating it. Thank you guys for coming along for the ride :)

Bog glanced around the staging area on the town green, setting his chainsaw on the back of Marianne’s truck and pulling his gloves off for the first time since they’d left Primrose painfully early that morning.  It had taken them nearly two hours to reach this part of town.  Dawn had driven the Ford, the bed laden with people, all the food they could cultivate from the ruined garden, all the eggs Marianne had on hand and nearly the entire pig she had in her deep freezer.  Bog had walked in front, using the chainsaw to cut a path to town while Marianne, Sunny, Gregory and Rick followed behind him, moving branches and large sections of trees out of the way.

                They’d been the first to arrive but now people were starting to trickle in from all directions.  They came prepared, boots, heavy pants, gloves and a determined air.  Bog nodded, because they were going to need every ounce of that determination today.  Main Street was a mess.  Most of the buildings were entirely destroyed, but a few storefront’s still stood, stuffed from behind with debris from the collapses of the buildings around them.  Most of the downtown district looked like this. But, while businesses had been hit hard, relatively few homes had taken substantial damage from the storm.  There were plenty of missing and roughed up roofs, a few houses wearing trees, cars crushed by trees, but only a handful of houses had been demolished beyond livable.  

                And it was good that more people hadn’t lost their homes, but Poplar’s commerce was fucking destroyed.  It was going to take some real business savvy and planning to ensure that these businesses returned and rebuilt here soon enough that the town didn’t wither and die under the strain.

                He pushed his hat back, wiping at his forehead while he watched Dawn and Plum square off, nose to nose again.  Two sassing lionesses ready to duke it out. Marianne separated them—mostly by throwing Dawn over her shoulder, winking at Bog. 

                He felt the flush hit his cheeks and burn through his throat.  God damn.  He was at once really glad and really disgruntled that they hadn’t been able to linger together this morning.  For one thing, he had no clue what to say to her, how to act now that they’d made an agreement of pleasure.  On the other hand, she’d looked so soft. And the smile she’d given him had made everything feel good, from the tip of his ears to the pads of his toes. 

                Plum stomped over to where he stood, slamming her notebook down on the tailgate of the truck. 

                “I need you to talk to that-that—”

                “Member of your community?” Bog supplied.

                The side of Plum’s mouth lifted with distaste. “Ugh. I wish this was reality tv. And we could vote her ass off the island.”

                “What exactly is it that bothers you about Dawn, Mayor?”

                “Everything.”

“Can you expand on that?”

“She’s always micromanaging, putting her damn nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m Mayor, not her.  I don’t need some guitar schlepping windbag stepping in front of me, doing my job before I can. She breezed in here from nowhere, batted her eyes at the men, kissed the babies and brainwashed the women. I’ve lived in this town my whole life. I worked for this positon. I fought for it. This is my home.”

                Bog nodded.  So basically, Plum wanted to be the only pretty girl at the party. He nearly laughed, but instead folded his arms.  “I’m not one to heave advice at people, I figure if someone wants it, they’ll ask for it. So I’m asking you, may I tell you what I’d do in your shoes?”

                Plum rolled her finger through the air. “By all means.”

                “Forge an alliance with her.”

                “Excuse me?”

                “Listen, this whole town loves her.  You aren’t going to change that.  But, according to Marianne, this town is devoted to your leadership. You’re strong, you’re smart, you’re a good leader.  Dawn? She’s smart, yes, but where she really shines is in her people skills.  She’s got an easy way about her, and it seems folks would do just about anything to please her. Now, can you imagine if people were hearing your concerns and your plans from both sources?  The town sweetheart and the town queen, that’s a duo bound to get things moving. And judging by the hit your commercial district took, you’re gonna need to get things turned around and built back up quickly.  The less fighting and disagreeing on how to take on these projects, the better. So if the woman the town respects above all others and the woman they adore are both angling the same direction on things? Most folks are going to come around real quick to what you want.”

                Plum didn’t respond immediately, her eyes slit as she studied Dawn where she sat in Sunny’s lap, toying with his hair. Finally, she picked up her notebook and briefly turned to him. “King?”

                “Yes?”

                “Next week or so, I’m going to be calling on you.  I want your professional opinion on the downtown’s reconstruction. I’m gonna have a team of people, all with different ideas no doubt, and we’re going to hash things out. You’re gonna sit, listen and poke holes in it all.  Help us shake down the best way to go about all this.”

                “Mayor, I haven’t the first idea about any of that—” He’d snapped his jaw shut. She was already walking towards Dawn, gesturing for the other woman to follow her. Bog could smell Dawn’s suspicion twenty feet away, but she slid off Sunny and went with her. 

                He scratched the back of his neck.  He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to sit in on the brain storming session. Even if Primrose had survived the storm relatively unharmed, Marianne as still going to feel the effect of this.  The loss of the local commerce would mean inherently fewer customers and fewer opportunities to make money for her.  She’d told him she fed her neighbors first and he was starting to understand that she couldn’t thrive unless Poplar thrived. 

                Forty minutes later and he and Sunny had been assigned to the chainsaw crew that was heading out to clear the roads of fallen trees. One of the other men he’d been teamed with gave him a fresh chain for his machine.  While switching the dull teeth out for new ones, Marianne found him, her eyes bright against the purple bandana she had knotted around her neck. 

                She looked rested. 

                He liked that.

                “I’m on a team clearing Main Street. All girls.  We’re calling ourselves the Rubble Makers.”

                Bog laughed. 

                She shot him a grin. “Whatever voodoo you did on Plum and Dawn is working, by the way.  You may have created a monster.”

                Before he could respond, someone called out her name, waving her over. 

                “I better go. Plum wants to be able to get a single vehicle down all three blocks by the end of the day.”

                Bog glanced over the truck at the stretch of Main Street. It was going to be barely passable for someone on foot, much less a car. Getting that much moved in a day was a big job.  Dangerous too, he thought with a frown. Some of the remaining structures looked entirely unsound. As if one strong gust of wind and they’d come toppling down with the rest of the mess. 

                “You’ve got safety hats right?”

                “What?”

                “Hard hats.”

                “No, we don’t exactly keep fifty hard hats lying around town, King.” Her sass was light, matching the easiness in her mood. 

                How bizarre was it to think that he’d contributed to that mood.  That if he wanted to? He could reach out and hug her…and she’d welcome it.  He still couldn’t quite grasp how he’d woken up under a cat, three goats, a skunk and one woman’s bare foot tucked under his, while a mule huffed and puffed with jealousy from a stall over.  But he’d take it. Again and again. 

                He pulled his ball cap off and settled it on her head.  “For luck.  Be safe, Summerfield.”

                “Shit,” she adjusted it on her head.  “You’re gonna have to fight me to get this back later.”

                His palms grew sweaty at the thought.  She’d probably wrestle him the same way she did the baby goats, hands and knees, butt wiggling as she pinned them down. “Get out of here, Rubble Maker.” He tweaked the bill, sending her on her way. 

                He couldn’t quite focus on his chainsaw until she was out of sight and he had nothing left but the machine. He finished replacing the chain and climbed onto the tractor drawn wagon he and the other crew members would be riding from area to area.  He waved at Lydia, as she waited in line to load up in a church van. She had her arms around a box carrying his skunk and a backpack full of the supplies she’d need to care for her.  Most of the teenagers had volunteered to head to the Methodist church where the parents who were working today had dropped their children off.  He couldn’t imagine a better setting for her.  She’d do better today if she were helping scared kids who needed warm reassurances and the opportunity to take their minds off the tornado.  

                Bog sat down, realizing he’d ended up next to Sunny. 

                “Hey, man.” Dawn’s husband held out a pair of ear plugs. “Take these.  Did you get safety glasses yet?”

                “No—”

                “Peter!” Sunny held his hands up at a man on the other end of the wagon. “Hit me with glasses.”

                He caught them and tossed them to Bog.  He eyed them, annoyed.  How come he could get safety glasses and ear plugs, but Marianne couldn’t get one little hard hat?

“Cool of you to stick around and help out here.”

                “It’s nothing.”

                Sunny nodded.  Then said, “You know Marianne’s important to me right?”

                Bog glanced at him, shifting on the flat wood board that served as a bench. “I would hope she is.”

                “So you understand I’m telling you this because I need to make sure that nothing happens to her.  Marianne? Strongest woman I’ve ever met.  But she is so fucking fragile.  You take care of her. You spoil her and you make sure her happiness is priority number one on your list. I’m not going to be able to sit by this time and just watch some man destroy her all over again.”  Sunny’s face was hard, but an air of nervousness clung to him. 

 Bog forced himself to focus less on his anger at having another man tell him how to treat Marianne and more on the fact that Sunny’s affection for her was sincere.  He may not like his approach, but he approved of the message.  “Consider it done.” 

                Sunny shook his head. “Man, you don’t get it.  You’re still leaving right? Going back to Vegas? Leaving her?”

                An ugly fist of ice twisted his gut.  He pushed at it, willing it to go away, but the intrusion of reality stung a little too much. “I’m not—I wouldn’t leave her-leave her.  But I have to go back.”

                “She and Roland tried to make the long distance thing work.  He’d spend three weeks there and one week here.”

                Bog grabbed at that idea. “Yes.” He could make that work. He would make that work. Some of the panic receded, and he could breathe again.

                Sunny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She caught Roland keeping an every three weeks girlfriend.  I know there are lots of pretty women in Vegas. I get that.  Just tell me now if you can be faithful to her.”

                Bog almost laughed. “Sunny, that’s not something’ll you’ll ever have to worry about.”

                “Yeah. I hope so. It’d be a real bitch trying to kick your ass. I might be forced to just set Dawn on you.”

                “No.” Bog shook his head, disturbed at the idea of an angry Dawn turning hellcat on him. “Won’t be necessary.”

                If there was one thing he could promise Marianne, it was fidelity.  And he knew that was a good thing, but it seemed so inconsequential in light of all the other things he wasn’t able to give her. He stretched his neck as the wagon pulled away, trying to catch another glimpse of her.  She still wore his hat, heading into the destruction. 

               

                 

                Bog ducked into the tent erected on the town green.  The air smelled of barbecue, Josephine was out front grilling donated meats of all sorts, determined to feed the entire town.  But he’d slipped by her, urgently seeking a place to hide.

                There were plenty of people in here. He could sit and blend in and thank God, Sunny and Dawn were already at a table at the back of the tent. 

                He took a seat, slouching down enough that his tall frame wouldn’t stand out, his back to the entrance.

                “Bog, you have to eat,” Dawn said.  “I know it’s hot, but you’ve been working too hard not to refuel.”

                He nodded. “Yeah, too hot. I’ll cool off a few minutes.”

                “Your face is red.” She handed him her bottle of water. “Drink up before you end up in the medical tent.”

                A movement at his side startled him and he nearly jumped up, but a plate was plopped in front of him, Marianne stepping over the bench to join him, her own plate butting up against his. 

                “Josephine saw you run in here without grabbing a plate and boy, is she mad at you. She fixed this herself and said if you don’t lick it clean, she’ll make you sorry.  Whoa, Bog. Are you alright?”

                He brought his shoulders up to his ears, feeling the red just increase across his face. “Yep.  Just a little hot. Dawn gave me water.” He shook it, hoping it would appease her, but a crease bent between her eyebrows as she gave him the same concerned look she gave one of the milk goat’s teats when it became infected, or when he brought a baby skunk out of his shirt. 

                “A little? Bog, you’re fire engine red.  Maybe we should go to over and have one of the paramedics take a look at you.”

                “No-no, please, I’m fine.”

                “And I’m serious, if you won’t go to them, I’ll have them come in here—”

                “There he is!” A shout cut Marianne off, and Bog prayed for the earth to just open up and swallow him whole.

                “What’s going on, Bog?”

                “Nothing.”

                The tent had gone quiet and Bog didn’t have to turn around, he could hear the family of four approaching by the still sniffling little boys.  Jesus, he was going to die from this.

                “Bog.” Marianne got up and moved closer, standing, he realized, between him and the others. Protective little hen that she was, he wasn’t going to hide behind her feathers. 

                Somedays, he fucking hated his life. 

                He stood and about fell back over into the table when a grown man, nearly as tall as he was, but twice as wide tackled him with a hug.  The tent was still horribly quiet, even Marianne seemed frozen. 

                “He saved the boys.” The woman said, her eyes trembling with mascara filled tears.

                “No, I didn’t.”

                Bog was ignored.

                “We wanted the boys to see our hardware store for themselves, so they really understood what Mommy and Daddy are going through right now…” She sniffed. “We only left them or a second.  We were right there, just across the street when the remains of the store front started coming down. He came out of nowhere, he ran through, getting my boys out before the brick and mortar could hit them.”

                The dad finally eased off Bog’s ribcage, letting him breathe again.  Everyone was staring at them, and Bog didn’t think even the medic could save him from death by mortification. 

                “What’s your name, sir? I want to shake the hand of the man who saved my boys.”

                “Bog,” he muttered, reluctantly giving him his hand. 

                “I’m Dan and this is my wife Rory, our boys Hank and Aiden. We’re forever grateful to you.  I can’t begin to tell you how—how—”

                “That’s okay.” Bog held his palms up. “You don’t have to.”

                “Why don’t you go grab some lunch,” Marianne said, angling her thumb back at the entrance of the tent. “And then come join us for lunch?”

                “Yes.” Dan nodded firmly. “We’ll do just that.”

                Relieved he’d get a five minute reprieve from this nonsense, Bog sank back down onto the bench. Which was a terrible idea because the weepy-wet mother threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek before taking the little boys’ hands and leading them out.

                Everything in him screamed to scour her kiss of his cheek, but everyone in that tent seemed stuck on staring at him.  Bog clicked his teeth together and turned around on the bench, facing his own pile of food. 

                Slowly, the volume returned as people started chatting again.  Marianne sat back down, and he was well fucking aware that she, Dawn and Sunny were still just looking at him.

                “I didn’t grab them. I shoved them. They probably have road rash up their spines but are in too much shock to realize it.”

                “Oh.”

                He could hear the smile in Marianne’s voice and he glared down at her. “They probably have hand shape bruises from how hard I hit them.”

                “Hmm.” She only smiled, despite his sour expression.

                “They’re going to sue me over this. Just watch. An entire legal battle because two kids got whiplash.”

                Her soft giggle at once pleased him and really rubbed him the wrong damn way.

                “Damn it, I was just in the right place at the right time. This is ridiculous. Can’t a person just say thanks and move on with their lives, not making such a big fucking deal about nothing?”

                Dawn shook her head. “Nope. ’Round here, heroes are given their due recognition.”

                He gagged at that word. Hero his ass.  Those kids would need therapy from the sight of him bearing down on them then literally shoving them through the air. 

                “Last winter?” Sunny said. “Nick Ryleigh pulled the entire Colter family out of an overturn vehicle during a snowstorm, took them to his place and kept them for three days while the blizzard kept us all hunkered down. Man hasn’t paid for a meal since. Lucky bastard.”

                “I will gladly pay for everyone to forget it ever even happened.”

                “Yeah, man, that’s cool, but could you wait till Josephine gives you that pie?”

“Where the hell did she get it? Did she bake it? The diner’s leveled flat,” Marianne turned, looking over her shoulder.

“Ten bucks says it’s cherry and oh, my god, so good,” Sunny groaned, picking his fork up, eyes focused somewhere right behind Bog.

“I just heard!” A female voice crooned, all southern and sweet. “Oh, what a brave thing you did.”

                Bog sighed, resolutely turning around to once again face the crowd.

 

                It had been cherry.  And, he admitted, really good.  He’d only had one small slice, choosing to share with the table, as if Sunny would’ve let him do otherwise. 

                Once Dan and Rory stopped the gushing, and once the atmosphere in the tent returned to normal, his heart beat had finally slowed down and he’d been able to eat his barbecue and relax a little. Marianne had to sit close so they could all fit, but it wasn’t so bad.  She somehow still smelled nice despite the work she and the other Rubble Makers had been doing. And he liked how she still wore his hat. It was a touch too big on her and the bill tended to drift to the side a little, and her little ears perked up over the edge of it,  but it only made her look more fairy today than ever.

By the time he headed back outside to work, Bog was certain everyone had moved on and forgotten the whole thing.

                But no.  No, everywhere he turned, people stopped to shake his hand.  A group of little old ladies handing out water bottles had forced him to bend way down, letting them each kiss his cheek.  Jesus fucking H, if the cop hadn’t been standing right there waiting to shake his hand, he’d have glared at each of the old biddies. One stuck a peppermint in his pocket.

                He couldn’t escape it.  And that, he realized, was the problem with his face.  He stood out. They knew who he was, knew what he’d done before they even saw him.  He was used to people whispering about him, talking behind his back, but this was different.  Because instead of avoiding him, they were seeking him out.

 By late afternoon, he’d received a peppermint, two separate promises of a free beer, a promised share of half a pig—which he’d stick in Marianne’s freezer to replace all she’d donated today—and enough handshakes, back claps and smiling face to make the sanest of men want to claw their way out of their own skin.  He ended up hiding in an alleyway, lifting rubble and carrying it towards the road to be collected later.  As his pile grew, he half seriously considered just walling himself in until the town forgot all about it.

Shadows fell over him, casting a shiver down Bog’s spine.  He turned to see three thick necked men, country to their bones climbing over the rubble and into the alley with him.  Marianne would’ve called them ‘good ole boys’.  Bog called them shit-stirrers.  He knew their type, they came into the casino loud, obnoxious, expecting something for nothing. 

He set the block of concrete he’d been carrying down and straightened to his full height. 

                “You Bog?”

                Fuck, if he had a dime for every time he’d heard that today. “Yeah.”

                “We been looking for ya.”

                “And why’s that, gentlemen?”

                “My baby sisters said theys ended up at your place after that tree fell on Aunt Plum’s car.” He hooked his thumb in a belt loop. “Said you gave them whiskey, man.”

                Bog only nodded.  He figured he could hold his own in a brawl with one of these big fuckers.  But three? Three was going to hurt. 

                The man threw his hand out and Bog brought his fists up.

                “Dude. Relax man, Jesus. I’m trying to shake your hand. Christ, word is you’re some fancy fucker from Vegas. Y’all go ‘round throwing punches there to every stranger you meet?”

                “Something like that.” He slowly shook the man’s hand.

                “I’m Curt. This is Weller and John. Aunt Plum’s sending volunteers home now. You should come with us down to Curly’s and let me buy you a beer man.  Least I can do since you took care of my sisters so good.  Lydia said she’d been terrified out her mind but you set her straight.  She’s cracking tornado jokes left and right with my aunt now, so I spose she’s gonna be alright.”

                He wiped his arm over his head, taking some of the sweat with it.  He supposed, at this point in the day, he’d earned a beer or two.  And he imagined Marianne would tag along with. And he liked that idea.  “I could use a beer, I guess.”

                “You guess? Shit son, this whole town’s going on ‘bout how you rescued a baby skunk from death, single handedly kept my aunt and Dawn from having a cat fight in the street this morning, and saved them kids from falling debris.”

                “They’re calling you a hero.” Weller said and Bog winced.  He needed alcohol. Fast.

                “Fuck yeah.” The other man, John grinned. “All the girls gonna be sweet on you now.”

                “Nah,” Curt said. “He’s with Marianne.  Heard her this morning tellin’ them other girls who were making eyes his way and she wasn’t nice ‘bout it either.”

                “Um, wait, what?” Bog asked, scratching the back of his ear. “Marianne said what?”

                “Marianne? You mean that hot goat chick?” Weller asked.

                “Hey, now—” Bog said, but Curt interrupted him.

                “That’s the one.”

                Three pairs of eyes turned on him, and they all started grinning.

                “Fuck yeah, man.” John slapped his shoulder. Hard. “No one’s been able to get near that girl. Good for you.”

                “Come on.” Curt jerked his head back towards the street.  “It’s beer thirty time.”

                Bog only shook his head, following the trio out. If someone had told him yesterday morning that he’d be hailed as the hero of Poplar today, he’d have laughed his ass of. 

As they made their way back up Main, they ran into more people.  He kept his eye out for Marianne, the hot goat chick.  He smiled, thinking of how she was going to laugh at that. 

Maybe she’d let him sleep next to her again tonight.  In a bed where he wouldn’t wake up to a goat walking over his groin.  Her shoulder probably hurt again. Which was fine, he’d absolutely rub it out, but his mind kept going beyond the shoulder to the creamy expanse of her back.  She had moved under his hands, making soft, sweet little noises and just thinking of them now made his heart hammer. 

Pleasure. He rubbed his hand over his chest. Not sex. How fucking lucky was he?  

                Finally, Bog spotted Marianne in the cab of a big ass truck, backing it towards a trailer loaded with rubble. 

                He stopped Curt. “I’m gonna grab Marianne.  We’ll catch up with you at Curly’s in a few.”

                Curt slapped his hand against Bog’s chest before he could move.  “Nah, I got this.” He cupped both hands around his face. 

 “HEY! MARIANNE!”

She jerked in the truck, braking hard, looking startled half to death.  Bog grimaced as Curt continued yelling at the top of his lungs.

                “WE’RE TAKING YOUR BOY HERE TO CURLY’S! YOU FINISH AND BRING YOUR CUTE SELF DOWN, YEAH?”

                She hesitated only a minute before she gave them a thumbs up.  But Bog could tell even at this distance that her eyes were on him. And that smile was just for him.  Seriously. How fucking lucky could he get?

 

                Marianne was hot.  And sticky.  But Curly’s was hot and sticky, and full of other hot and sticky people so she didn’t feel the need to so much as wash her face as she moved into the crowd.  The power was still out in town, but there were generators droning in the alley out back, giving the place enough juice to keep the music on and the beers cold.  Who needed air conditioning when the mountains were blue?

                It had taken her longer than she expected to drag that trailer out to the dump on the edge of town.  Even though the chainsaw crew had done a bang up job of clearing the major roads of tree debris, there was still shit everywhere.  And everyone wanted her to stop and talk about Bog.

                She smiled. She’d been doing that so much today it hurt.  But damn it, she was happy.  She couldn’t wait to see him, catch that slow, sliding smile he’d shoot her way.  And to tell him that the wildlife rehabilitator Hannah had asked Marianne if they’d keep the skunk a little longer until she was able to fix up some of the storm damage to the pole barn she kept most her wildlife in.  Something told Marianne that King was going to be very, very pleased. 

                Short as she was, it was hard to spot someone in a crowd, even someone as tall as Bog. She finally commandeered a stool, climbing up to stand on it.  He was in the back on the other side of the dance floor where the pool tables sat under bright hanging lights.  She watched him for a moment, just for the sheer pleasure of it.  It was difficult to see the balls on the table, but she could see how gracefully he moved around it, pool stick in hand.  His broad shoulders and narrow waist looked good in the jeans and half tucked in shirt he wore.  And when he paused, and straightened, pointing his stick out towards someone off to the side she couldn’t quite see, the pool stick moved in his hands like it was a part of his body. 

                She jumped down off the stool and straightened his hat on her head before making her way to him. As she got closer, she realized he was still with Curtis, Weller and John.

                “Son of a fucking bitch, King, damn it!” Curt shot off his stool and slammed his beer down.  “This is bullshit.”

                Marianne’s easy mood snapped, and goosebumps fled down her arms.  She mindlessly grabbed an empty beer bottle by a nearby table.  She liked Curt, rough around the edges as he was, he was a family man and always took care of his sisters and mother, treating them like princesses. But Bog was hers. And since Curt was one big m-effer, fighting dirty was the only way she’d get his ass down.

                “Deals a deal,” Bog said.

                John and Weller started laughing, slapping their knees as if they’d just heard the best joke.  Marianne’s heart raced so hard, she could barely breathe

Bog finally seemed to notice her standing there and he smiled, crooked, eyes slightly glazed.  Oh, wow, amusement curled through her despite everything.  Her boy was well on his way to hammered.

“Hey, there you are,” he said.

                “Hi.” She loosened her grip on the beer bottle, but didn’t set it back down.  Not yet.  Curtis still looked like someone had run over his favorite pair of boots.  “What’s going on?”

                “Just beat big mouth here at a game of pool.”

                “Slayed him more like it.” Weller said.

                “Shit. Mother fucker.” Curt lifted his hat, scratched his head and pulled it back down.  Yanking the cell phone from his pocket, he dialed and stuck it to his ear. “Aunt Plum?” Curt’s eyes fell on Bog and he sighed. “I wanna cover the costs of rebuilding the gazebo on the town square.  Yeah, I’m sure. No, I did not lose a bet.” He forced that through his teeth, eyes narrowed at Bog. When he hung up, Bog slammed his bottle down so hard it foamed and Marianne jumped. 

                “See? Don’t you feel good man?”

                Curt rolled his eyes. “Feel like I just took it up the ass from an elephant.”

                Bog’s fingers wavered at the crowd in the bar, his body slightly weaving as the other hand used the pool stick to help hold him steady. “What do you think all them women are gonna think of you when they find out you’re donating that? Hmm?”

                A new light entered Curt’s eyes, as he slowly nodded. “King. I’m buying you another beer, my friend.” Then he blinked at Marianne as if he were just now noticing her. “What’s your poison hot ass?”

                Bog growled, and Curt swallowed.  “Bog’s piece of ass?”

                “Fuck you.”  
                Curt just grinned at them, his teasing just that. Teasing. A little crass, a little shitty, but from Curt? Meant he liked you.  He wouldn’t give Bog the time of day otherwise.  “You don’t tell me something now Marianne, you’re getting a Bud.”

                “Bud’s fine, Curt.”

                He nodded and shifted back to Bog.  “Listen man, it looks tacky if I’m the one telling people that I did this. I’m gonna need you,” he shoved his finger in Bog’s chest. “To spread the word, my man.”

                As he left, Bog leaned towards Marianne. “Curt’s paying to rebuild the gazebo.”

                “I heard.” She stuck the empty beer down, leaning back against the pool table. “Rumor has it he lost a bet.”

                “First and last time he’ll ever bet against a Vegas man.”  Bog said sagely, his face a little softer around the edges from the alcohol.  He didn’t look like a man carrying the weight of world on his shoulders tonight.  

                “Yeah, love Curt, but he’s not the brightest.  You’ll have plenty more opportunities for him to lose his ass to you.” She glanced around. “Bog, where’s Baby? Lydia said her parents were dropping the skunk off a half hour ago”               

                “Gloria put her and her heat lamp in the office.”

                “Gloria?”

                “Bartender.” He gestured in the general direction of the dimly lit bar where a brunette with hair down to her butt and a too tight football jersey that read ‘A Curly’s Girly’ was serving drinks. 

                “She’s cute.”

                Marianne’s head snapped around. “Gloria’s cute?”

                “She is?” Bog squinted towards the bar and shrugged. “Not really my type, but she’s bound to grease the axel for someone.”

                Marianne pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.  Apparently, Bog was sponging new vocabulary from Curt and his crew. “So who’s cute then?”

                He blinked owlishly a couple times, before responding with, “You?”

                “No, Bog.” Marianne started laughing. “We were talking about Baby and she’s in the office and Gloria put her there and you said she’s cute-Oh. Oh. Baby. You were talking about your skunk.”

                “I think she likes me.”

                “Yeah, bud. She likes you.” She was going to hold off with her news until he was just a wee bit more sober. 

                Curt brought back her beer, Sunny and Dawn left the dancefloor to drink a few and shoot some pool.  Bog didn’t play again, but every time Curt, Weller or John picked up stick and leaned down to take aim, he’d wince and make a face, leaving them to second guess themselves. Until they caught on that he was just giving them shit and the three of them laughed so hard, Marianne swore she saw Bog blush from it. 

                  Dawn bought him a cheeseburger and fries—the only thing Curly was cooking on account of the limited power—and a big cold water, but it was Sunny that sat with him at one of the stool height tables, making sure he ate and drank it all while Marianne and Dawn racked up a game. 

                As the night wore on, people kept stopping by, talking to Bog, shaking his hand and offering to buy him a beer.  He never said no, and he always took a draw off of it where they could see him, but Marianne caught on that he was slowly funneling the beers to Sunny, who’d either keep it or pass it off to Dawn or her. 

                The music started to fade from boot stomping, navel baring country to cheek-to-cheek, kiss-her-under-the-stars country.  Which was totally Dawn and Sunny’s jam.  They moved to the floor, having mastered the two-step long ago.  The graceful, fluid movements of the dance coupled with steel guitar’s twang, left Marianne sighing into her third beer.  She wasn’t much into traditional romance, but that there was her weakness. 

                And it amused her to no end that Sunny and Dawn were dancing to a song they wrote and sold for a very pretty penny.  She had to admit, they had a gift with tugging the heart strings in both lyric and composition.   

                Curtis wandered back, pointing his finger at Bog. “What the actual fuck, man. Hot chick bartender says you’ve had like twenty eight beers tonight. Dude.  How THE FUCK are you still standing, man?”

                “Gloria.”

                “What?”

                “The bartender’s name is Gloria”

Marianne giggled quietly. Apparently, the women of Poplar had either taken Bog under their wing or he’d taken them under his.  She wasn’t quite clear on the details. 

 “And I’m still standing cause this pool stick’s still holding me up.” He gave the stick a little wiggle for effect. 

Curt grinned. “You’re alright, King. We got poker night next Wednesday. You oughta come.”

“Fuck.” Bog barked, half laugh, half disbelief. “You’re inviting me to play poker with you? I’d hose you all and that’s not fun for no one. Anyone? God,” he turned to Marianne briefly baffled. “I’m so countrified I don’t even know what’s the right way to speak anymore.”

She laughed, enjoying this side of him. He was so damn cute, so damn easy to be with.   

“Hose us, my ass. We’re not playing by Vegas rules, this is redneck country, brother. You’re on our turf. We’re gonna teach you a thing or two about cards.”

“You’re on.  Curt-ass.”

                Curtis flipped him a vaguely amused finger before disappearing into the front of the bar. 

                They were semi-alone for the first time that evening and Marianne climbed up into the bar height seat he was standing next to.  His focus was on the dancefloor, concentration bent his brows together.  

“What’re you thinking about?”

                ‘Dancing with you.”

                Marianne blinked out at the floor where couples moved slowly. “Do you…are you wanting to dance Bog?  
                “Fuck no. But I’m imagining it.  Jesus, Marianne I’d hold you so fucking close.”

Her chest tightened and she clutched her hands together to keep from reaching for him. When he said things like that, she just…just wanted to wrap around him.  And kiss him. And hold him so fucking close.

He still hadn’t taken his eyes of the dancers, but they held a faraway, wistful look, his mouth moving as he sang silently along. Somewhere in his mind, he was picturing them out there and the knowledge carved a hole in her heart. Smiling to hide the bittersweet pain, she said, “I’d like that, Bog.”

                The song ended and he shook his head as if clearing his mind. Mouth solemn he turned towards her, coming to stand just between her knees. She hadn’t expected that and his closeness startled her. He caught the bill of his hat, pulling it off her head, setting it on the table.  Without it to hide behind, she felt exposed. 

                “What’s wrong?” She asked.

                He shook his head. “I think I wanna hug you.”

                “Oh.” Her breath caught in her throat and she was so tempted, so deeply tempted to give in and wrap her arms around him, but it wasn’t right like this. Not when he was drunk. “Bog, I want this, but I’m afraid Sober Bog’s going to regret it in the morning.”

                His mouth twisted. “Sober Bog’s an asshole.”    

                “No, he’s not. He’s my friend. And I care very, very much about him.” Startled blue eyes met hers. “So, I won’t let anyone talk about him that way, not even himself.”

                He blinked rapidly, looking away from her for a moment. When he spoke his voice was thick, but his smile was all lopsided and all him. “See, I told Curt you were the best and this is why.”

She laughed fondly, wondering if she could maybe hold his hand.  He’d held hers all night last night, surely it was okay tonight as well. It was just—trickier—navigating drunk Bog who’d probably let her sit in his lap and stroke his cheek all night if it would make her happy.  And sweet as that was, sober Bog needed her to keep their promises. 

But before she could move, Bog hedged closer, his cheek touching the top of her hair. Marianne froze, squeezing her eyes shut as warmth ricocheted through her body.  Another slow song filled the air, and he brought his head down until he could press his forehead against hers. Her fingers jerked, her body crying out to close the gap between them, cradle his body against her and take his face between her hands, but she gripped the seat under her instead. 

He closed his eyes, and slowly, she did too.  As the music moved over them, he began to sway ever so slightly. Their heads moved together, their noses occasionally brushing as he ‘danced’ with her.  Emotion welled in her, and she pressed back against him, nuzzling her forehead against his, trying to give back as much tender feeling as he was giving her. 

When the song ended, she drew back, opening her eyes.  He still held the cue stick in one hand, the other braced on the table next to her.  His body curved over hers, blocking everything out but him.  She watched as he came back, the dreaminess fading into something entirely different when he looked at her. He was frightened, like a little boy who’d swam out too far in the ocean and didn’t know how to get back to shore. 

“Marianne, I—”

                “Bog!” Dawn’s voice cut through the music and abruptly stopped when Bog turned to the side and she saw Marianne sitting on the stool.  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

                “Someone bothering you ‘gain?” He straightened, reaching for one of his beers and taking a deep, fortifying draw off it.

                “Bog.” Dawn’s hip jutted, her manicured hand landing on it. “Clay was not bothering me. Just cause a man pulls a chair out for a woman doesn’t mean he’s up to no good.” Her face pinched. “Shit. Someone remember that, I left my pad in the truck! Marianne! Your job is to remember that.” She flashed a smile at Bog and held her hand out. “Now, are you going to dance with me or not, King?”

                Bog set his beer down and took Dawn’s hand. 

                Alone, Marianne scratched at her beer label.  It hurt more than a little that Dawn got this from him.  The easiness with which he went to her, slowly following her lead as the nostalgically romantic music played over head, it all sent a spike of pain through her. Even as she rubbed at her throat, she knew he needed this.  Dawn was a safe place for him. Clearly.  And at least it was her own sister he trusted in so completely.  But when he smiled at Dawn, lifting his arm to twirl her under him, it was hard to push back the raw envy.  Hard to watch him give so much to another woman. 

                She knocked his hat over two inches to make room for her beer. 

                Sunny took other seat at the table and followed the line of her gaze.  “Oh, wow, he’s picking that up surprisingly quickly considering how pickled he is.”

                “Yeah.” He looked so natural, his arms flexing fluidly as he moved Dawn slowly across the floor. 

                “I like him,” Sunny said.  “Any man who asks to learn how to two-step just because he found out it’s your favorite is a good man, Marianne. A good man.”

                She swiveled her head around. “He what?”

                “Dawn, she told Bog that the two-step is your favorite dance and he asked her to teach him.” Sunny gestured with his beer towards them. “It’s sweet. That’s the kind of shit a good man does for a woman.”

                The hard lump of jealously she’d been fighting to swallow melted away.

                She picked his hat back up and slid it over her head, watching the town hero dance with the town sweetheart. And Marianne had never loved a pair of people more. 


	12. Just You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer! Love y'all!

Bog had no clue what time it was, but he was grateful for the blessed darkness of the room. The…living room? His eyes felt crusty when he made a feeble attempt to open them so he stopped.  Definitely living room.  He could hear the chicks scratching around in their box.  A heavy weight on his arm brought a sense of instant peace to him.

Marianne.   

She’d slept next to him again. 

Koala’d herself to his arm really, judging by the firm grip she had of him. And that was…different, but not entirely unwelcomed. He shifted his head, his brain only sloshing minimally around in his skull.  Giving himself a moment to let the swaying settle, he finally forced his eyes open, wondering if she’d greet him with that soft smile today.

Bright blond hair covered his arm. 

Wait. What?

Bog’s heart stopped. He instinctively tried to pull his arm back, but Dawn clung to it. 

                “Boggy woggy,” she murmured, then sighed. “Kingy wingy.”

                He whimpered, brain screaming at him to breathe but he was paralyzed. Why was she?...Surely they didn’t…

                She lifted her head, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”  
                “Oh my god.” He jerked on his arm, but she only came with him.

And then he heard it.  Marianne’s husky morning laughter from his other side. 

A brown arm appeared around Dawn’s waist and she squeaked as Sunny dragged her backwards. “Stop torturing the big, scary hungover man, Dawn.”

“You little shit,” Bog accused, scratching his face, fairly certain he’d just aged ten years.  His heart still pounded in his chest. “You ornery little shit.” She was snuggled up to Sunny now, but he could see the giggles she was trying to muffle against her husband shaking her frame.  Little blond monster. “You’re lucky I’m hung over, else I’d cart your ass out to the water trough.”

“You stepped on my toes all night and you shared beers with me and you’re raising a baby with my sister. That makes you family—”

Bog sputtered.

“I’m allowed to torture you,” she continued.

He sputtered more and Dawn quietly whispered to Sunny, “I think I broke him.”

“Oh, my God, my head hurts,” Marianne moaned. Whether from the aftermath of alcohol or the time of day, he wasn’t sure, but her voice was throaty and thick.  “Stop making me laugh.”

Now that he was the most awake he’d ever been in his life thanks to Dawn, Bog realized Marianne’s foot was tucked under his again.  It must be a her-thing. Cute now, but she’d probably chase him out of bed with cold toes this winter.  

If there was a winter here for him, he thought grimly. When Sunny mentioned the three weeks in Vegas, one week here plan, Bog had jumped at it.  He still clung to the idea, but he had no clue what next week would bring—let alone winter. This had happened so quickly, it could all disappear even faster. 

That sobered him up pretty damn quickly.

He stared at the ceiling, a small spot of rainbow cast from the large prism in Marianne’s east window sat just over them.  Maybe he wasn’t drowning any longer. But he was still lost at sea. 

Everything was so confusing now.  Somehow he’d made…friends…here.  And the thought of them—both Sunny and Dawn as well as the entire population of Poplar—coming to their senses and realizing how mistaken they’d been about him was enough to make Bog want to just pack his bags and get out of town before they could chase him out.  Except, Marianne was here.

If he left now, there’d be no continuation of them. Of the pleasure. And he wasn’t expecting much—didn’t have the right to expect anything at all, but he didn’t want to leave until he’d had just a little more.  Just a few experiences to take back with him.  He wanted memories. He needed a place inside himself he could retreat to if he was going to survive the rest of his life in the glow of neon.

If he could keep treading water here and keep playing at someone he wasn’t so the town wouldn’t suspect anything, he’d have a chance at that.  And if he was lucky for once in his life, maybe he’d get a few winter months of three weeks away, one week back with Marianne. 

                The more morning light that filtered into the living room, the louder the chicks got and Bog scrubbed his head again. “Is there a reason we’re camped out on the living room floor?”

                Sunny sat up on his elbows, face scrunched with annoyance. “Because,” he drawled. “Mister involuntary designated driver couldn’t get any of you drunk a-holes to go to bed. So I gave up. Consider yourselves lucky I bothered to give you pillows and blankets.”

                Dawn reached up and ruffled his hair. “Good husband, Sunny wunny.”

                Marianne yawned and stretched, her foot sliding out from under his. He had to restrain his own leg from chasing after it.  She scooted upright, patting her hand over her hair, trying to flatten something that refused to be tamed, then tugged on the boots lying discarded by the bookshelf.    “Someone needs to cook breakfast,” she said. “One…two…three…NOT IT!”

                “Not it!” Sunny and Dawn cried almost simultaneously, leaving Bog blinking at them.     

                “What just happened?”

                “You just volunteered to cook breakfast,” Marianne grinned at him with a conspiratorial wink.  “And!  Sunny and Dawn just volunteered to help me with farm chores.”

                “What?” Dawn shot up, nearly knocking Sunny over. “No! Ew.”

                “Yes, ew. Come on, Delaney.  Where’s your country spirit?”

                Dawn whipped around, surprising Bog when she gripped his arm.  Hard. “Trade me. Trade me now, I’ll make the most amazing pancakes—”

                “Nope, no bribing the chef.”  Marianne jumped to her feet and manhandled Dawn up and over her shoulder, the same way she’d carry one of her goats. “Sunny, grab your wife’s shoes.”

                Dawn screamed the entire way out of the house. 

                Sunny flopped back down. “I miss the city. Where the only morning chore is putting on enough clothes so that you’re decent when you walk to the corner coffee shop.” 

                “I’d have thought you and Dawn would want to be closer to Nashville, what with your careers and all.”

                Still lying on his back, Sunny began pulling his boots on over his feet, but he glanced at Bog before slowly nodding his head. “Marianne and Dawn have always been together, I swear, they’re more twins than sisters separated by three years. But when Dawn and I married, we made a home in Nashville.  And without Dawn in Vegas anymore, that life just got to Marianne.”

“The panic attacks.”

“Those among other things.” He rolled up, pulling his laces tight as he tied them. “She moved out here and not a year later, everything she’d been planning her life around crashed and burned around her.  Except this farm.  Which is why Marianne’s clung to it so hard, has kept it limping along while Roland tried to extort her for all it was worth.  She’s walked a fine line between thriving enough to keep the lights on and being poor enough that there wasn’t even a penny Roland could steal out from between the couch cushions.  But it took a toll on Marianne.  For at least two winters she’s lost so much weight she stopped—” Sunny seemed to catch himself.

“Stopped what?” Bog asked.

“I only know this because Dawn’s my wife and she tells me _everything_ , but she stopped menstruating.”

“Oh.”  Bog frowned, remembering the scarecrow thin woman who’d accosted him that first day he arrived. “I-I didn’t know that could happen.” He rubbed at his sternum, unsettled by the weight of the idea of Marianne losing normal function of her body due to hunger.

“Seeing her like that damn near killed Dawn.  When she asked to move, I couldn’t say no. Marianne’s my sister too.  And we both thought we’d just, you know, funnel her some money when things got tight.” He pinched between his eyes, as if working out a headache. “But she won’t take it.  Our mission has become to feed Marianne as often as possible.  Buy her a meal every time she’s in town.  When she invites us out, we bring lots of food and always forget to take the leftovers home.  Ask her over to dinner once or twice a week.  It’s not much, but it helps. Summers are better at least, she eats from the garden with abandoned and trades produce for meat.  Or did.” Sunny frowned. “I’m not sure what she’s going to do now that her plants were destroyed.”

Bog thought of the first time he met Dawn and the breakfast at the diner, then of that day on the river and the mountain of leftovers that were in the fridge the next day.  “Marianne’s lucky to have you two.”

“Family’s important to them.  They lost their mom young and their dad’s never really been there for them.  So they are their family—Dawn and Marianne.  Well, me too now. We’re really all each other has.  I’m just so glad fuckface is gone for good.”

“That another one of Marianne’s nicknames for him?”  

“Nope. That’s all mine and you’re welcome to borrow it.”  

Bog only nodded, picturing the snide pretty boy Douglas treated like a son.  He’d been practically adopted by the entire Elite in recent years.  Being groomed, Bog thought, to take over the Sunrise someday.  Which made no fucking sense if Marianne had broken up with the cheating sleezebag.  “Why would her father still keep Roland around? Especially after the way he treated Marianne.”

Sunny’s face rumpled with a wince. “Man, it’s sticky talking bad about my father in law. He’s done some dumb shit, but he’s still their dad and both of them still love him.  They just love some of the stuff he does less.”

A muffled sound of music came from somewhere under Sunny’s blankets and he patted around until he unearthed his phone.  “What? I’m getting my shoes on.”

Bog could just make out Marianne’s voice.  “Doesn’t take twenty minutes, Sunny. You’re not hungover. You have no excuse.  Come outside and squeeze a goat teat.”

“God. Marianne. Gross.”

“I saved Big Fanny just for you.”

Bog snorted, watching Sunny go pale. Marianne had named her Big Fanny only because Lard Ass sounded as if she didn’t love her.

Sunny turned his phone off with a grimace. “Well.  Apparently I’ve got a goat tit to fondle.  So.” He stood, snagging Dawn’s shoes from under the couch.

“Teat,” Bog corrected him.

“Man, I don’t care if it’s called a swumple-dilfer.  A tit is a tit.”

Bog laughed, the last to rise from the nest of blankets and pillows and more blankets.  He watched briefly from the window as Sunny jogged—then ran when the cat jumped out from under a bush and chased him—to the barn, leaving Bog alone with the task of breakfast.

He pushed at the lingering headache with his fingers, turning to go put more fuel into the generator. But he stopped, a surprised sound stuck in his throat when spotted the small wire cage set up on the dining room table with a heat lamp and a small, mounded towel.  Bog clicked the door to it open and the towels instantly began moving as Baby rustled around.  He brought his hand to her, gently soothing the dark fur over her head.  Her eyes were just starting to open, and he could make out bleary black eyes between the lids.  But she scooted towards his hand, pushing with the shaking of an infant into his fingers. Apparently Baby would be his one more day. Or longer, he thought, picking up the canister of powdered formula next to the cage. 

He’d never had a pet before. And granted, the skunk would have to be rehabilitated to the wild, but Bog rather liked the idea of raising her. Truth be told, he never even thought about animals in Vegas. If it weren’t for the occasional pampered, lap-trophy dog some of his clients traveled with, he’d forget that animals beyond the meat on his plate even existed. But everything here revolved around other living beings.  He hadn’t liked that at first, not when all he could see was the work of caring for them, the smell, the unpleasantness of getting kicked by an angry she-goat in the shins.  But animals were simpler than humans. You got back exactly what you put in.  When he slowed down, when he paid each animal individual attention and really worked at reading their body language, they gravitated to him.  When he was at peace, they were at peace.  And the more time Bog spent caring for them, the easier he found it to let go for at least a little while, some of his relentless anger.  It made being inside his own head easier as long as he didn’t think too hard about his inevitable return to Nevada.

He tucked the skunk back in, then poured more gasoline in the generator sitting out by the garage’s open door before heading into the kitchen to wash his hands. He could cook eggs and bacon now thanks to a couple impromptu lessons from Marianne.  And he supposed his grasp of the mechanics of cooking meant he could make pancakes if he had a recipe.  He pulled Marianne’s recipe notebook out from in between the fern and the glass jar of dried mushrooms she kept on a long rustic shelf above the kitchen counters.  He flipped it open and began one handedly filling the coffee carafe with fresh water. 

As far as he could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to the layout of her notebook. Just a bunch of recipes all jumbled together in her slanting handwriting.  Occasional pages would have little doodles of chickens or the farmhouse sketched on them. He knew she wanted to eventually translate her recipes into a cookbook, something to sell alongside her goods at farmer’s markets and she often jotted notes in it as they ate.

Random red ink caught his eye and he stopped flipping, turning back a few pages to look while he dumped water into the coffee pot. His initials were at the top of the page with three hearts under it.  He turned a few more pages and found another recipe she’d made not just two weeks ago.  There was only one heart under it and a sad-faced mushroom with the words ‘fungus-phobic’ scrawled in big letters.  God, he’d struggled through that meal, trying to sneak out the mushrooms without her noticing. Apparently, she had.  But her tomato pie recipe had five hearts and Bog realized she’d made it at least three or four times since the first. Everything she’d made for him had rating and little notes on the dish. 

She was tracking his food preferences, taking care of him all this time in her own way.  He could eat like a literal king year round, and yet the woman who should be filling her body up on anything she wanted, was catering her cooking to his taste. 

He turned and slid the notebook back into its spot on the shelf then stood there and stared at it, hand mindlessly covering his throat where she’d held him two nights ago. There was a strange intimacy in knowing that she watched him so closely.  He still didn’t quite grasp what she was getting out of this.  Why she seemed to care so much.  Marianne could get attention from so many different men, the town of Poplar had made that clear yesterday.  But she seemed so genuine in her regard for him.  Even when he hadn’t quite been able to hug her yesterday, she’d made it okay.  Made a simple press of their foreheads something sweet and perfect. 

Heavy guilt crawled under his skin as he finished making coffee.

There wasn’t enough of him to give to make any of this equal between them. But part of the pleasure agreement was to take care of each other.  He’d been toying on and off with the idea of investing into the farm, it was clear now he had to if Marianne was to survive this winter and continue to thrive over the years.  And while she could tell Sunny and Dawn no, she couldn’t him. He owned half the farm. There was nothing stopping him from pouring enough money into it that Marianne wouldn’t ever have to struggle again.   

For once he didn’t resent that the best he had to give was money, because this time, it would not only make Marianne happy, but it would continue to provide and protect her long after he was gone. 

By the time he had bacon frying and a pile of brown eggs waiting to be cracked, Dawn came into the kitchen and threw herself into a stool, sitting with her face flat against the island countertop.

“There’s coffee if you want it.”

When she didn’t move, he fetched a mug and filled it, pushing it towards her.  Without lifting so much as lifting her head, she pushed it back with one finger. “Cream. Lots of sugar.”

Bog carried it back towards the stove where he flipped the bacon then doctored her dark, delicious coffee into something a child would drink with a straw.

“Here you go. One coffee flavored sugar bomb.”

Dawn lifted her head and plopped her mouth down on the mug’s edge, taking a loud sip off the top, her arms still sprawled out motionless.         

He leaned back against the counter where he could watch his pan and the wisp of blond.  “Where’s Sunny and Marianne?”

“Fondling goat boobies.”

“And Marianne let you skip out early? I’m shocked.”

“She had no choice.  Someone put a bug about me in the Mayor’s ear.  We’re having ‘lunch and talks’ at her house today.” Dawn’s lip lifted in a sneer even as she pushed her mouth over the mug sucking down another sip. “I have to wash the Curly’s stank off and beg some big tall fence post to give me a ride to town.”

“We’ll all go in, I imagine. More clean up to be done.”

One side of her mouth pulled back in a smile, a look so reminiscent of her sister that for a moment Bog wondered if they weren’t actually twins.

“Mayor says the utility company is sending workers today to start restoring power to our area.  She’s asked everyone to focus on their own properties or their neighbors for today—possibly tomorrow too depending on things. At exactly what point last night did you black out?” She asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Mmm.” Dawn finally picked her coffee up and drank it like a normal person. “So you do remember Plum coming in and having an impromptu powwow while she downed a melted margarita?”

“Sure.” He didn’t.

“So you definitely remember singing karaoke Faith Hill with Sunny.”

                “I didn’t—”Bog clacked his teeth shut, eyes narrowed. “I’m onto you. You get a certain look about you—just like your sister—when you’re pulling one over on me.”

                Dawn threw her head back, belting to the ceiling.

“ _It's the way you love me_ __  
It's a feeling like this  
It's centrifugal motion—”

“Dawn.” __  
“It's perpetual bliss  
It's that pivotal moment  
It's, ah, impossible—”

“Stop it.” __  
“This kiss, this kiss (unstoppable)  
This kiss, this kiss!”

                “You little shit.”

She laughed, flying out of her stool and wrapping her arms around his waist.  “Hug me you sad beanpole. You’re my new favorite person.”

Bog grimaced even as she snuggled up to his chest, eyes shut, her smile a brilliant arch of white taking up nearly half her face.  “Won’t let go till you hug me back,” she spoke through the smile, mouth not even moving a little.

“Give me one good reason as to why I’d want to hug you.”

“Practice for Marianne.”

“Pff.” He rolled his eyes, but heat crept up the back of his neck. He stuck one arm awkwardly over her back. “You’re lucky I’ve got a thing for blondes.”

“No.” Dawn caught his ear, pulling him down to her height.  “I’m lucky you’ve got a thing for brunettes.”  She kissed his rough cheek.

He batted her away, more embarrassed by her tender expression than her kiss or closeness.  “You’re as bad as the damn mule.”

“And twice as stubborn, I guarantee.  You’ll drive me to Plum’s?”

“If you’ll stop harassing me.”

“Oh, well,” she snorted. “That’s not ever going to happen. You’re ours now, Boggy Woggy.” She disappeared, taking her coffee with her.  Moments later he heard the shower running.

He sighed down at the pan on the stove.  No doubt when Dawn found out how he was going to save Marianne, she was going to want to hug and kiss him all over again.  The little blond shit.  

A puff of pained laughter escaped him as he thought of his botched attempt at hugging her sister last night. If only things were as easy with Marianne as they were with Dawn.  But even as he thought it, he knew it was better that it wasn’t.  That it meant more with Marianne. She’d probably want to hug him too once he told her his plan to infuse the farm with money.  And though his mouth went dry, the thought was anything but unwelcomed.  

 

Bog grimaced at the candy pink Victorian.  It was surrounded by filigree wrought iron fence and the entire yard burst with flowers.  There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen.   

“She’s single,” Dawn said as if it explained everything.

“Well, you two have fun. Don’t kill each other.”  He jumped when his door open.  Plum stepped up on the running board and leaned into the cab. With a muffled curse, Bog flattened against the seat as she reached around the wheel, turning the truck off. 

“Come on inside! I’ve got tea.” She jumped off and scampered up her walkway, three cats the exact same silvery blond shade as Plum’s hair followed her up the stairs and through the dark purple door. 

“She took my fucking keys!”

“Yep.”

“Damn it.” He pinched his nose, coming to terms with the fact that he’d just been taken hostage. “Shit.”

“Are you going to sit here cursing, or…are we going in?”

“I’ll stay for a half hour. Then you pretend you have a headache and we have to go.”

                She pushed her door open. “What are we? A married couple trying to get out of pinochle night with the neighbors?”

                “Dawn—”

                She slammed the door, giving him a little finger-wave through the window. 

                He cursed again, climbing out of the truck to follow after her.    

 

                Some stood, some sat on lime green settees and velvet couches, but they all managed to cram into the Victorian’s floral parlor.  Plum held court, sitting in a high wingback chair the color of butter with Bog at her left and Dawn at her right.  One of the silver furred cats had claimed his lap, it’s silent purr soothing him as the business owners who were directly affected by the downtown’s destruction discussed not so much the how-to’s of rebuilding, but the difficulties they faced. 

                Dawn took notes and Bog listened gravely as Dan the hardware store owners spoke up, his wife Rory holding his hand.

                “Mayor, we have insurance. Like everyone else here.  But you have to understand, the cost of rebuilding, and refurbishing and restocking and keeping our mortgage current, feeding ourselves and our children for the next five? Six months? Those numbers are way more than what our insurance is worth.  We can’t _afford_ to stay at this point. How can we when if we move to Jasper, I can rent a building and be in business in two months top?”

                There were murmurs of agreement from other owners. 

                Plum nodded, fingers folded over her crossed legs. “Our county’s been declared a disaster area.  That means most of you will be able to get disaster loans from the Small Business Administration to help cover some of these extra costs.”

                “At an additional cost to us, Plum. Those loans have to be paid back. Most of us can’t take a monthly hit like that on top of starting our businesses from scratch again.”

                “Then let’s problem solve. How do we fix this? What ideas does anyone have?”

                It was a long meeting. A very long, unsatisfactory meeting that barely scratched the surface of what Poplar faced.  Numbers were thrown around, they were all speculative at this point, but it was dismal.  As a business man, Bog agreed that it made more sense financially to move to a larger city. Like Jasper.  But, these people and their commerce were the beating heart of Poplar.  Without them, it would become a dying memory.  People would be forced to move away.  There would be no Poplar unless they all committed to rebuild and stay, working to make the community strong again.

                Uneasiness tanked his stomach and he idly wished for a cigarette.  He wouldn’t feel settled again until he knew Marianne was going to be okay, no matter what happened with Poplar. 

 

Primrose Farm was theirs again. Bog pulled into the lane, resting his arm in the open window as he drove towards the white house on the hill. Light spilled from its windows. The sun had just set and the western sky remained a brighter blue that eventually blurred and faded into the dark eastern horizon.

He parked, happy to finally be home. He’d taken Sunny and Dawn back to the large log cabin style home they’d built on a couple small acres just outside of town. The power was back on there and in very few other neighborhoods.  He and Marianne, however, were still on generator power.  So the lamps glowed a little softer as he came inside.

But the air smelled of rosemary and roasting meat.  Familiar music of Marianne’s favorite band came from the kitchen. As he pulled his boots off at the door, he watched her pass barefoot by the kitchen doorway, unaware yet that he was there.  She danced a little as she moved, swaying to J.J. Grey and Mofro’s I Believe track. She called their Orange Blossom album her “summer-night-beer-drinking” music, but this one song always slowed her down. Made her quiet and thoughtful as the words resonated through the speakers. She was a bit like a hummingbird, always moving, always doing, so much so that it was difficult to see her details. To pick up the tiny minutia that made her so very her.  But this song stilled her long enough that her colors were a little clearer, the shape of her cheek and slope of her nose a little more defined.  The pull of her smile a little sweeter.

Moving into the kitchen doorway, his shadow finally fell into her space and while she smiled at him, she automatically reached out to turn the music down.  Now the sound of crickets and deep roll of the bullfrogs from the river penetrated through the open windows, reminding him that it was just the two of them here in their own little world.

“You survived.” She pulled a Corona from the fridge, wiggling a slice of lime down through the neck before passing it to him.

“Why does your sister have a doll collection? For a woman afraid of squirrels, I figured the whole porcelain-faced, kill-you-while-you-sleep doll thing would be a no-go.”

“Oh.” Marianne’s face distorted in shared horror. “I know. Don’t get me started on them. I don’t know how Sunny does it.”

Bog sipped his beer.  “Probably the same way I handle being surrounded by animal skulls all day. Willful blindness.”

A laugh tugged in her throat.

“Skulls, feathers and mystical crystals,” he mused, fingering the pale green chunk of rock she kept on the kitchen’s long shelf.  “I assume the skulls and feathers are things you gather from around here, but these can’t be.  Why collect them?”

“They were my mother’s. I’ve added a few, but for the most part, they were all hers.  Some people like houseplants in their windows, Mom liked minerals and crystals. And I like seeing her around here.  She’d have loved the farm.”

“And the skulls?”

“Speak to me on a spiritual level.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded. “My mother collects Beanie Babies. I’d take the rocks and bones any day.” He tilted his beer towards her and she lifted her own, tapping his gently.  They both drank, Bog’s eyes drawn to the shape of her collar bones.

Marianne slipped on a pair of oven mitts and pulled out a roasting pan from the oven. The scent of rosemary became stronger. “Is your mom back in Vegas?”

“For now.  My cousin’s running the casino while I’m gone, she’s playing nanny to him. But she moved to Malibu a few years back.” His mother was really more of a body guard for Ansley, keeping him insulated from the Elite as best she could.  But Bog kept that to himself, not wanting to ruin the mood.

She lifted what looked like lamb out of the pan, setting it gently on a cutting board.  “We’ll let that rest a minute or two there.” She chucked her oven mitts onto the counter and picked her beer back up, pushing herself to sit up on the island next to where he stood. “Did everything go well with Plum and Dawn? No blood? No back stabbings? No undercuts?”

“Not a one.”

“That’s almost disappointing.  I’m going to miss them, it was like a hockey game without having to freeze your ass off.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone neutral.  “You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think lately and we really need to discuss the terms of our partnership.”

“Oh?” Her brow quirked, but she listened.

“I’m going to end up being more or less a silent partner.  You’ll be the one putting in the work and handling the day to day around here.  That means in order to pull my weight of my share, I need to be putting some money into the farm.  When the bank reopens, we’ll go open a joint a count together, that way I can transfer funds from Vegas and you’ll have full access to them whenever you need them.”

Marianne sipped her beer thoughtfully.  “What would I use the money for?”

“Operating costs, new equipment, that cheese making parlor you’ve been wanting to build, whatever you need.”

“Hmm.  And food?”

“Food, heat, whatever you need.”

“Bog, I’m going to be fine, you know that, right? Even with the tornado, Primrose Farm will make it.”

“Scraping by and thriving are two different things, Marianne.”

“Sure. But I didn’t do this because I thought it would be easy.  I knew what I was signing up for.”

“But you have me now.  There’s no reason you should starve when I have money and I can afford to get you through the winters.” He irritably scratched his head with one hand. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“You’re looking at this as a man of business. It makes sense, you’re right.  But I’m looking at it as a woman in a relationship…”

Heat slammed his face and her voice trailed off.  Bog hid behind a long draw of the Corona, steadying the sudden nervous trembling in his hands.  But the moment he dropped his arm, she tugged the beer out of his fingers, replacing it with her hand.  She pulled him to stand in front of her, his feet felt incased in cement, but she was persistent.  Then she stuck her other hand out and he reluctantly took it too. 

“I’d rather go through a hundred more winters like the last than take your money, Bog.”

“But—” He stammered, swallowing around the sharp stones building up in his throat.  “You have to take it. It’s all I’ve got for you--the best I can give you.  And it would make a huge difference in your life. You’d be safe and happy, Marianne.”

“No.” Her fingers squeezed around his. “It’s not all you’ve got to offer. Your money has nothing to do with you.  It’s not standing here in my kitchen, it’s not holding my hands making the stress of the past few days melt away. It doesn’t matter to me the way you do. Bog?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes.

“I just want you.” Her eyes glittered in the browning lights of the generator produced electricity.  “Just you.”

The need to protect her clawed at him, making it hard to breathe. “I can’t stand the idea of you going hungry again. Or being cold.  Or scared, Marianne. I can’t go back to Vegas knowing that you’re not cared for.  God, I’ll lose my mind.”

She solemnly lifted one of hands to press a kiss to his knuckles. His heart stopped and the world fell silent around them.  He watched her mouth slowly take one of the raised ridges into it, the pink of her tongue just barely visible as she did.  His body shook when her lips closed around it, and she met his eyes as her tongue took a soft taste of his skin.  Fire burned through him, killing him as he stood there at her mercy.

She pulled her mouth away, but pressed her cheek in its place.  “I don’t like the idea of you unhappy in Vegas any more thank you like the idea of me unhappy here, so we’ll compromise. Would you help me figure out the farm’s big-picture financials then write a business plan so I can get a loan from a bank?”

He jerkily nodded. “O-okay.”

Her smile left him a little light headed.

“The meat's probably ready.  We’ll eat then feed Baby.  And I thought, if you wanted, tonight we could sleep in the bed of the truck down in the pastures by the river. I haven’t done it all summer and every winter I hate myself for not doing it more.”

He nodded, stepping back at she slipped off the counter.  He surprised them both when his arms caught her from behind, lifting her against him.  She had to feel his hard swallow by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed behind her head, but the soft noise she made was happy.  And her hand reached up, tangling in the hair at the back of his neck. 

He closed his eyes, even as she drew him a little closer, her cheek nestled against his. 

It wasn’t a perfect hug.  But it the most wonderful thing he’d ever done with his arms.


	13. Stroke of Luck

A couple days later, Marianne paused at the living room window, arm full of blankets.  Bog stood out in in the grass, hands in his pockets.  His head was tipped down watching the little black and white body bouncing on his shoes.  Now that her eyes were open, it was Baby’s first trip outside and judging by the spastic bobbing and wobbly attempts at running, she was enjoying it. 

Bit by bit, Bog seemed to get into the spirit of things, untucking his hands so he could bend over and pet Baby who only lifted up on her hind legs, begging like a small child to be held.  Marianne could hear his laugh through the window pane.  He squatted, giving the skunk his entire hand to sit in as she surveyed the world around her.  And then, eventually, he sat, long legs stretched out, letting Baby climb up and over them. She seemed particularly fascinated by his boots, tasting the laces and scratching the rugged leather with her little claws.  Marianne snorted when Bog jerked ramrod straight, giving a surprised hoot as the skunk tried to worm her way up his pant leg.   She reached his calf quickly and Bog wiggled as if it tickled, desperately clutching his thigh to keep her from going any higher.  Marianne giggled and Bog’s head turned towards the house.  She dropped down out of sight, burying her face in the blankets to smother her laugh as she ducked away. 

                Dumping the blankets on the bed, she noticed the slight film of dust coating the headboard and dresser.  Other than storage for her clothes, she didn’t use this room anymore.  She slept with Bog, wherever they might settle for the night. Be that camping in the bed of the truck, sleeping in the barn, or stretching out on the living room floor their backs protected from the hard wood floors by layers and layers of blankets. She’d offered use of an air mattress rather than just blankets, but Bog had balked, his face paling, the skin stretched tight across his cheekbones.  It was the same reaction he gave when she’d suggested they sleep in her room one night. 

                Beds were off limits for now.  And that was fine. She knew his experiences with women and beds were the things he hated most about himself, so Marianne made the best of what worked for them.  Just as he’d been outside with Baby—starting out rather cold and stiff before eventually giving himself up to the experience—it was taking Bog time to adjust to sleeping next to her. 

But he was. 

And it was slow.

But it was also wonderful. 

                For the first time in her life, she was with a man who didn’t treat her like a sex object.  There was no pressure for her to make her body available. Or to dress the part—making herself look like the kind of women men expected and wanted her to be.  With Roland, it had been all about how she looked.  And Marianne hadn’t quite understood that when Roland told her to make herself pretty before they went out in public together, it wasn’t because he wanted her to feel at her best—it was because he wanted the trophy on his arm. He wanted other men to lust after and envy what he had.  She’d been a power stroke for his ego.

                But Bog didn’t seem to care what she was wearing.  He was still adorably hesitant and unsure no matter if she wore her overalls and floppy hat, or a tank and cut off shorts.  Because it wasn’t her body that made him nervous, it was _her_.

                And damn if that didn’t light a fire inside of her.  He’d probably lock himself in the bathroom if he knew how terribly sensual he made her feel and how terribly hard it was not to push their relationship a little further a little faster. 

                But Marianne could see how much he struggled with allowing himself intimacy. That he tried at all was the greatest gift anyone had ever given her.  Last night, it had taken him nearly five minutes of broken, tumbling and faltering words to ask her if she’d let him sleep with his arm over her for the first time and even then, Bog had laid on his stomach next to her, one arm stretched over her waist—low enough it was nowhere near her breasts and high enough that it didn’t touch her pelvis. But they’d kept their faces tipped towards each other, talking by the light of the summer moon. And in the morning, Marianne woke up to the hem of her pajamas clenched in his fist, his shoulder lying over her own while their heads very nearly touched.  She’d brought her arm up to rest gently over his. In his sleep, Bog had clutched her closer.

                He made it hard to miss her bed. 

 

                Wednesday afternoon found Marianne at Dawn’s house. Bog had poker that night with Curtis and a few of the other guys around town including Sunny, so while he stayed at Primrose finishing up a few chores before leaving, Marianne had opted to hang out with Dawn.

                But as she pulled up to the grand log cabin, blue tarp still firmly tied down on the one corner of the roof, Marianne frowned at all the other cars parked in the u-shaped drive.  She found Dawn in her dining room where Plum and at least a dozen other women sat around the table.  The chatter stopped only long enough for a collective ‘hi, Marianne’ before they were all lost in conversation again.

                Dawn excused herself though, taking Marianne to the kitchen.

“You’re forming a coven and you didn’t invite me? Dawn, I’m hurt.”

“Ha.” Dawn pulled the bottle of wine from Marianne’s arms and stuck it in the fridge.  “This won’t take very long.  Plum wanted to hold a last minute meeting and since town hall is missing its west wall, we brought it here.”

“And what are we meeting about?”

“The August Days Festival.”

“Really?” Marianne pushed herself up on to the granite counter top, kicking her legs with a winking grin when Dawn glared at her. “How on earth are we going to throw a festival when our entire town is in shambles? Tradition or not, I think this is one year we should maybe just skip it.”

“And that’s the point that’s been argued back and forth.  Do we or don’t we?” Lifting a cutting board to the counter, Dawn rolled a watermelon he size of a baby hippo onto it before digging a long knife out of a drawer. “On one hand, Poplar is a mess. On the other hand…well, Poplar is a mess. The community could use some cheering up.” She paused, grunting as she sawed at the melon until it split in two. “The town council decided yes—so long as we can organize and provide a safe place for the party.  So, no carnival rides this year, no shopping booths and 4H displays or quilting contests.  Plus, no advertising to the entire county, it’s going to more or less be a Poplar only affair.  We’re sticking to the necessities.  Food and dancing.”

“A raffle and a cake walk too if we can manage it,” Plum said as she joined them in the kitchen.  It was an odd sight to see the Mayor—former enemy number one on Dawn’s shitlist—digging through the fridge until she retrieved a diet coke while Dawn held a knife and didn’t aim it at her.

Marianne tilted her head, studying the color in Plum’s face.  “Mayor, you’re looking brighter than you have since the tornado.”

“Well. I’m certainly feeling brighter.”

“Are things looking up in town?” She asked, feeling a small spark of relief at the thought.  

“I’d say.” Plum stole a bit of watermelon off the cutting board. “We received a donation of ten million dollars.”

Marianne’s heart stopped and she openly gaped along with Dawn. “How-how much?”

“Ten million. And instructions that a good portion of it should be set up as a generous incentive fund for business owners who choose to rebuild rather than move away. This is going to save us all, so believe you me when I say this town needs a party.”

                “Who—”

                “Ah-ah-ah.” Plum shook her head. “Sworn to secrecy. Sorry.”

                “Dawn, did you—” Marianne slid off the counter.

“Me?” Her blond brows arched so high they nearly disappeared. “Oh, God no, not that I wouldn’t, but it never occurred to me. And I mean, I don’t have _that_ kind of money.”

Plum tapped one nail on the can in her hand.  “Of course, I can’t say anything what with the swear upon the Bible solemn promise I made not to out our benefactor. But not many people around here have that kind of money. Or the… _personal_ …interest in the long term future of Poplar.”

Electricity slid down Marianne’s spine, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

Dawn looked at Marianne, then again at Plum. “You mean—”

 “Again, sworn to secrecy.” The mayor made the motion of zipping her lips, but she watched Marianne.  “It was a kind and selfless thing to do.  I hate that more people won’t know what’s been done to save their livelihoods, but maybe, just one right person needs to know.”

The truth was too much, too big to breathe around and Marianne found herself clutching at the counter for support. Her eardrums rattled with the pound of her heart beat. “I-I-can’t believe this.” She fisted her hair. “What do I do?”

The other two women both smiled as if their worlds hadn’t just been rocked. And maybe they hadn’t.  But Marianne felt like she’d just been tipped into the other hemisphere. 

“You go to him, Marianne,” Plum replied.

Dawn took her clammy hand and squeezed it tightly. “You run to him.”

                       

Marianne stood in the barn’s doorway, unnoticed. The little radio she kept in there was on low, Joseph had his head stretched over his stall door, trying to grab ahold of the back of a clueless Bog’s shirt as he swept the center aisle. Such a simple scene and yet the tidal wave of emotion she’d first felt at Dawn’s threatened to swamp her again.   

The man who’d wanted nothing more than the entire world at his door begging for a dollar just secretly saved an entire city. The gesture would’ve bought him friends.  Respect.  A place in this community. Things, she thought, he was still suspicious of. Things he didn’t think he was deserving of.

She leaned her head against the ragged door frame, wondering how long it would take for him to realize he’d already earned all of them just by being himself.

Joseph finally caught a bit of Bog’s shirt between his teeth and yanked him back against the stall door so he could push his head down over his body.  Bog’s alarm faded to a chuckle and he scratched the mule’s neck. Her heart swelled at the sight of his smile.

But his easy manner disappeared when he spotted her. “Marianne, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His brows drew together, clearly not satisfied with her answer.  “You were supposed to be at Dawn’s this evening and now you look like there’s war on the horizon.  What’s happened?”

Only he would see the fierce glow of emotion and automatically interpret it as war.  “I ran into the mayor.”

“Oh.” He glanced away, then down at the mule’s head still draped over him.

“She mentioned that someone made a ten million dollar donation to the town.”

His shoulders stiffened. His gaze crawled her way, but never quite made it before turning back to his hands as he tangled them in Joseph’s mane.  “That’s a stroke of luck.”

“Bog.”

Mouth pinched thin, he picked the broom up and began sweeping again, giving her his back.  She repeated his name, and his entire body deflated. “I won’t take it back,” he whispered coarsely. 

“I don’t want you to.”

“There’s no use in being angry either.” He drew himself upright, but his head still sagged forward.  “It’s done. And I’m not sorry.”

“And I’m not angry. Bog—”

“That’s a funny face to be making then. I’ve seen enough angry, disgusted women to last a lifetime, Marianne.” He sighed then threw the broom down the aisle.  The baby goats jumped in their stall, bleating loudly.  Back still turned to her, he tugged his hat off, wiping his forearm over his face. “That’s not something you can hide from someone like me.”

Heat slashed across the back of her neck and she forced herself to take a deep breath before jumping down his throat.  It wouldn’t help if she proved him right and did get angry and did poke his sad ass with a pitchfork.  

As irritating as they were, she knew those prickly defense mechanisms were there for a reason, an evolutionary byproduct of his life so far.   Hell, he’d relied on them to protect him for so long, they were probably knee-jerk reactions at this point.  Fight or flight. 

He’d just fought. She knew it wasn’t long before he chose flight.

She walked past him, calmly picking the broom up, holding it out for him.  His face was haggard, his mouth set in a hard line, but he reached for it.  Marianne pressed it into him, hard, using his surprise to pin him against the wall, the broom slanted from his shoulder to hip.

He could’ve shaken her off in two seconds, but shock held him still, blue eyes wide. “Maybe you see anger and disgust because that’s all you want to see.  Maybe you’re too afraid to really see what’s there because you won’t know how to handle it.”

His mouth snapped shut, bitterness bending the edges of it, pushing deep grooves into the harsh planes of his cheeks.

“You were right,” she told him. “I am touchy feely. A terrible flaw you’re eventually going to have to just learn to look past.  I am _brimming_ with emotion.  I have fluctuated so hard between tears and fierce, burning adoration that my head just keeps spinning and my heart keeps squeezing tighter and tighter—and there’s no release for this. I don’t know how to tell you how I feel about what you did for Poplar.  For me.  I’m not sure there even are word for this.”

A swallow worked down his throat and he weakly pushed at the broom, but she refused to budge.

“All I know is that I want to kiss you.”

Panic filled his face and instead of trying to push the broom off his chest, he clutched it to him.

Marianne let go, letting him have his shield.  He remained pressed up against the wall.

“I won’t.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I wouldn’t abuse the trust you’ve already given me.  But when you’re ready,” she paused, tapping her lips. “It’s here for you.  I’m here for you.”

 

 

With a groan, Marianne splashed cold water on her face then snagged the towel from the oven door, clutching it to her hot cheeks.

Well.  She wouldn’t have to worry about where she was sleeping tonight.  Judging by the look on Bog’s face when she marched out of the barn, he wasn’t going to get within ten feet of her anytime soon. 

Already loneliness ached through her at the thought of her big empty bed.  Lucky for her, she still had a huge lump of emotions from him saving Poplar pushed up under her heart. Untangling those would give her something to do while she sat alone in her bed, so at least she wouldn’t be bored.

She tossed the towel and snagged her notebook, scooching up on the kitchen counter.  Once she was sure the festival committee was gone, she’d go back to Dawn’s for the evening.  It’d be nice to get out of her head for a while and think of something other than the stricken expression on Bog’s face. 

He made her want again. He made her feel female again.  Made her feel capable of giving herself after years of existing in a body that seemed more desert than fertile delta.  So she wasn’t going to apologize to him for wanting more, she just wished the truth hadn’t pushed him away.

She was in the middle of a terrible doodle of Baby when the door to the house opened and closed.  Bog’s heavy footfall made her stomach clench and she focused on the end of her pen as it touched the notebook in her lap, but she wasn’t entirely in control of it anymore.

He paused ever so slightly at seeing her before crossing to the sink.  The smell of July heat clung to his skin.  He washed his hands and forearms, then splashed water on his face before reaching for the very towel she’d discarded. 

Marianne continued staring at her lap and the kitchen was quiet.  He hedged a little closer and she set the pen down, nervously meeting his eyes.

“She wasn’t supposed to tell you it was me. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable with our relationship.” His voice tightened. “I don’t want you to think I was trying to buy you.”

“First of all, who else around here could afford to donate that kind of money to Poplar? It wasn’t hard to guess, Bog.”

His mouth pinched. “Right. Not Vegas.” He rubbed his chin. “I did not think that through all the way.”

She snorted and he flushed, pseudo-smiling in response, but his nervous gaze clung to her mouth and then his boots.  “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back.”

“And on to my second point. I don’t own Poplar. You didn’t give me ten million dollars.  You gave it to the town. Your donation equally affects me as much as it affects Lydia.  And Curtis. Dan and Rory and anyone else who shares the same zip code as me.”

“But I didn’t do it for them.” The unsaid words—‘ _I did it for you’_ —echoed in the silence between them. 

“And yet, I still don’t feel bought. I feel—” She wanted to say loved, because that was the heart-wrenching truth.  But she settled for something that wouldn’t scare him away.  “Cherished.”

His chest expanded and he clenched his long fingers together.  “Th-that’s good.”

                “It’s very good.”

                Although the air burned with his shyness, Bog extended one of those big hands towards her. She took it without hesitation and he rewarded her by coming a little closer, his abdomen nearly brushing her knees now. Tension moved between them when she tipped her head up to his. 

                He watched her a little helplessly, and Marianne felt as if they were dancing again somewhere in his mind.  Then he glanced so subtly at her lips that her world rocked again. 

                “You just have to say it, Bog,” she whispered, her voice more ache than actual sound. 

                His hand tightened painfully around hers, and his stomach finally pressed into her legs. “Marianne. I want you to kiss me.”


	14. Downhill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short (but sweet) one! Not sure if I'll have time to write tomorrow, but I HOPE to have another chapter out by Sunday. Thank you guys for reading :) I'm so thoroughly delighted by the comments, kudos and tumblr love y'all show me.

She shouldn’t laugh, but Marianne couldn’t help the sound that bubbled out of her as she caught his cheek in one hand.  It was obvious he wasn’t sure if he should frown or laugh too, but it didn’t matter.  Holding him steady, she leaned forward and not quite able to reach, pushed against counter with her other hand, pressing her mouth to his very still one.  

It was soft and short, as kisses between friends were. 

He studied her when she sat back down and Marianne rubbed her thumb across his stubbled cheek.  “More?”

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

Finally, he nodded.  She nudged the notebook and pen out of her lap and hooked a finger in his shirt hem, drawing his stiff frame just between her knees.  This time, she didn’t have to push up so far to reach his mouth.  She just barely caught his lower lip between hers. He gave a slight jolt and the movement of his body triggered her knees to lift and tighten on his hips as she repositioned her mouth, taking more of the soft shape of his lip.

It was warm and pleasant, as kisses between sweethearts were.

She drew her mouth away but her legs refused to move from where they were clamped against him. “More?” She asked, heart surging beneath her skin, but he was already nodding. 

She smiled and pulled his hat off, tossing it to sit on her discarded notebook.  She studied his face for one moment, the flush of color just under his eyes, the moisture evidence of where her mouth had sat against his.  The burnished glow of his eyes as he waited for her next kiss. 

This time, she lifted both hands to him, sliding them through his hair, slowly drawing the silky texture of it between her fingers, slowly petting the back of his neck, guiding his head down lower and lower until he braced his knuckles on the counter, bent over her.

And then she met his mouth again, tugging his lower lip open with her teeth. A frisson shivered through his body, his eyes closing when she rubbed her tongue just along the underside of his upper lip. So faint she could’ve dreamt it, he pushed his mouth against hers.  Her fingertips found the top of his jaw, massaging the joint until it relaxed and his mouth opened.  She tilted her head, glimpsing the hunger on his face just before she closed her eyes and pushed her tongue into him.  

He tasted of the same July heat that clung to his skin.  He tasted of the noise he made, the pulsing groan that vibrated through him and into her. 

With careful, aching patience, she kissed him, rubbing her tongue against his, delighting in the hot shape of it as he shakily brushed hers back.   One of his hands lifted to her waist, pressing just the pads of his finger against her. Marianne encouraged him with a soft noise, begging him with her hot, panting breath.  His hand opened, coming down to clutch at her waist. Her knees tightened so much her legs shook and still they kissed.

It was deep and lingering, as kisses between lovers were.

 

 

                Bog jerked when Curtis threw a chip at his head. Again.

                “Seriously. Shit or get off the pot. You in or out, Vegas?”

                He blinked at the very lousy hand he’d been dealt and shrugged, tossing a couple quarters into the pot. 

                They played with change here.

                Bog had come with significantly greener money, but luckily, he’d been able to borrow some change from Sunny who toted a coffee can that weighed every bit of ten pounds. 

                “You alright, man?” Sunny asked under his breath.

                Bog nodded very carefully, as to not trigger potent memory of Marianne’s mouth.

                The wet shape of her tongue.

                His own mouth watered and he shifted in his chair.

                He’d imagined kissing would be wet and messy.  And he wasn’t wrong. It was. But turns out, that’s what made it feel so fucking good. 

                Who fucking knew that two mouths could make so much pleasure between them.

                He ate the chip Curtis had thrown at him, then reached for the beer he’d barely touched all night. 

                Like the ones before, he lost this round.  Weller happily pulled the pot to his side of the table in Curt’s hot front room. 

                “You know. With all the smack talk you did, I was sort of expecting…more.” Curt shuffled the deck, fingers moving nimbly.  He’d make a decent enough dealer that Bog would’ve hired him.  Sunny—not so much. 

                “You’ve been in la-la-land all night.” John said.

                Weller shook his sandwich at him.  “Ten bucks says it’s because of hot goat chick.”

                “Mar-i-anne.” Bog growled, enunciating syllable.

                Weller snorted. “Jesus.  You got it bad, son.” One hand held the sandwich to his mouth for a bite as his other hand peeked at the cards landing in front of him.

                “Three of you been single so long, it’s a wonder any of you know what a woman even is anymore.” Sunny frowned at his cards.  No, Sunny would make a terrible dealer, but he was a hell of a player.  He was cleaning them all out. Bog was certain that even if he hadn’t left his brain somewhere on the kitchen floor, he’d still be struggling to out play him. 

                “I got a date next week.” Curt grinned.  “And I got no one but that schmuck there to thank for it.”

                Bog just stared at the tip of Curt’s finger. “What?”

                “Your drunk ass spent twenty minutes telling Janine Baker about me and that stupid expensive gazebo. Next day, well, guess who comes knocking on my door with cookies to thank me for what I was doing. Shit. Snickerdoodles and a date.” Curtis plucked a chip in his mouth not bothering to chew before he talked around it. “She’s a librarian so she’s smart.”

                “Nice rack too.”  John amended with a nod.

                “Hey. Watch it now how you talk about her.” Curt crunched the chip loudly.

                “Jesus. Another one bites the fucking dust.” John threw his cards on the table and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head.  “Before you know it, you’re gonna make us use coasters with our beers and take our shoes off at the door. Christ, once a man falls in love, it’s all downhill from there.”

                Bog wanted to correct John, but he supposed, it was a matter of opinion.  In his mind, there wasn’t necessarily anything bad about downhill.  Downhill was where you could take your feet off the bike pedals and just coast for a while, not having to fight and sweat and climb ever-upwards.  Downhill was where you could laugh and slow down as much as you want without worrying you’d lose the momentum to keep moving forward. 

                Another chip hit his head. This time from Weller. 

                “Ya’ll need to wind this game up so lover boy can go home. It’s getting painful.” John said. 

                Bog glanced at his hand and moved the queen of hearts to sit next to the king.  “Nah, boys, I’m just getting started.”

 

                The house was dark, but Bog knew his way around it now so well he didn’t need a light to guide him to the bathroom.  He brushed his teeth and stripped down to his under shirt and boxers.  The clothes he’d been wearing to bed with Marianne for the last few nights. 

                Well, not to a bed.  But to wherever she was sleeping.  Since she’d asked him twice to sleep on something besides the floor, Bog’s guilt had increased to the point of a plucking migraine at the back of his head.  He kept waiting for her to get angry.  Annoyed.  Through with his hang ups. 

So when she confronted him in the barn, he was so sure it was to set him on his ear.  Lucky for him, Marianne didn’t ever play into his worst fears.  Not matter what he expected of her, no matter how much he worried of what she’d think or say, she was always just her.  Honest, straightforward.  Beautiful and incredibly warm. 

His palm pulsed with the memory of her under it. 

He idly scratched at the roughness of his cheek before drawing his undershirt up and over his head, adding it to his dirty laundry.

One more barrier gone.

Trying not to wake her, he moved into his side of the blankets on the living room floor.  But her glittering eyes met his and rolled on her side to face him.

“How was poker?” She whispered.

“Your brother in law cleaned me out.”

“Musician—he’s good with numbers.”

“Clearly.” Bog propped his head up with a hand.  Late night talks were his favorite, it was where she dreamed out loud, but laughed the softest—as if she were afraid of waking up the world.

Her gaze flickered to his chest and her smile faltered, disappearing completely.  She lifted her hand, touching the bare ridge of his shoulders, trailing down the portion of his chest that wasn’t under the blankets.  His heart shifted in his chest, chasing after the glide of her fingertips.

“I like this,” she said, her smile returning as if he’d given her some sort of gift. 

Bog only leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, feeling himself coast downhill. 


End file.
